


The Lion and the Lady

by Anon_Mouse13



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:27:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26167114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anon_Mouse13/pseuds/Anon_Mouse13
Summary: While Jaime is supposed to be courting Lysa, his father is secretly pursuing the elder daughter of Riverrun. No one is overly concerned. After all, Catelyn is pragmatic, knows her duty, and would never be so foolish as to give in.
Relationships: Tywin Lannister/Catelyn Tully Stark
Comments: 13
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

He is not sure what irritates him the most: the girl’s insipid forced laughter or his son’s complete lack of desire to attempt to truly charm her. It is not as though Jaime is lacking in the ability to appeal to a young lady. Most young women he encounters are ensnared by his handsome face and witty banter, Lady Lysa being no exception. Lord Hoster’s younger daughter is certainly comely enough to be worth the effort, all kind eyes and auburn hair and gentle smiles that are becoming a lady, though, at five and ten, she does remind him a bit of a fawn still growing accustomed to the use of its limbs. Still, she is well bred, well mannered, docile – a fitting wife for his heir.  
  
If he were a man prone to outward expression of his thoughts, Tywin might have rolled his eyes. Of course, the Lord of the Rock is not that kind of man. Resolving to have a rather serious talk with his son after dinner, for the boy, though knighted, will not make a poor impression and embarrass his house while here, Tywin returns his full focus to his host. Lord Hoster, though often staying out of the politics of the realm, is surprisingly knowledgeable of the goings on at court. Tywin has been Hand long enough to recognize when someone is pumping him for information, but he respects the man’s subtlety in doing so. The Lord Paramount of the Trident would be a shrewd ally to have, further strengthening his resolve to remind Jaime of his duty.  
  
Laughter to Lord Hoster’s other side draws their attention, and both men turn to look at the source. At the man’s right, his eight year old son and heir sits, making faces at his oldest sister and the young Baelish ward. The melodious laughter that caught his ear comes from Lady Catelyn, and he is amazed at how, for all two sisters can be so similar in appearance close in age, she is remarkably different from Lady Lysa. The same blue eyes, same long hair, but in Catelyn, there is something more, an air of confidence that her sister lacks. He supposes it is the sureness that comes with a firstborn child, even a girl, for her eyes are just as kind as Lysa’s, but there is more behind them, an astuteness that he recognizes; her smiles just as gentle, but more womanly, more mature. She is innocent, naïve, but he can see a strength that Lysa lacks and, given proper instruction, Catelyn has great potential. A shame it would be wasted in the North, he thinks. Even now, her laughter is sedate yet genuine, her brilliant smile hidden behind a demurely placed hand as her other dances gently through the locks of her little brother, both satisfying the boy’s need for attention while reigning in his less than dignified behavior.  
  
Tywin is reminded yet again that Catelyn has played Lady Tully now for the better part of six years, has been both mother and sister to the lad. For all he prided himself on being prepared, Tywin had been blindsided upon arriving in Riverrun and, after being welcomed by the family, seeing Lady Catelyn begin issuing orders to the steward about how to settle their guests and then politely offering to lead him to the Great Hall. While everything else had been thoroughly researched, he had somehow overlooked that Catelyn was lady of the house in more than just name only. Mayhap it was because Cersei never sought to fill her lady mother’s shoes in anything more than the most basic sense that he had never considered that Catelyn might. He had cursed her betrothal then, and many times since, for he knew Catelyn would make a better Lady of the Rock than her sister. But then, he reminds himself, Lysa is younger. Mayhap she will yet grow into her role.  
  
“Forgive me, Father,” the subject of his musings interrupts, laying an elegant hand against her father’s arm to draw his attention, “but I would see Edmure to bed, by your leave.”  
  
“Of course, Little Cat,” Hoster replies, seeing that his son, though still attentive, is fading fast.

“I’ll come with you, Cat,” the ward says, already standing to go with her.  
  
“Are you planning a life as a nurse maid, Littlefinger?” Jaime calls mockingly down the table, causing a frown to form on the faces of both Tully girls even as young Edmure grins.

Seeing that his son has upset the girl he is meant to court, Tywin glares at the boy, hoping that he gets the obvious message. Though Jaime has not resided with him in four years, he has received regular messages from Lord Crakehall detailing Jaime’s training and progress. Every raven indicated that his son was growing into the kind of man needed to rule the Westerlands. This sort of behavior, this insolence toward their host – for to insult his ward is to insult the lord – can likely be laid at the feet of one person: his twin. I never should have allowed their visit, he thinks to himself, knowing that Jaime stayed with Cersei briefly before they departed King’s Landing.  
  
“Remain here, Petyr,” Catelyn soothes, defusing the staring match between the two boys. “Enjoy the remainder of the meal.” Turning to her father, she bends quickly to press a kiss to his cheek.  
  
“Good night, Father.” He watches her stand, then curtsey to table. “Good night, my lord, Ser Jaime. May you rest well.”  
  
It is as she rises that her eyes meet his, and Tywin feels his brow rise incrementally when her gaze does not waiver. Tywin knows he strikes an intimidating figure; he means to come across as such. But she does not look away, even as she takes the young lord’s hand after he bids his father and guests a good night as well. He watches as they depart, Edmure’s hand in hers, and Tywin cannot help enjoying the view. She is lovely, certainly, a lithe figure and graceful limbs, and long past when she should be wed. But, if what he has heard of the heir to Winterfell is true, Lord Brandon is far too worried about bedding the North to concern himself with wedding and bedding his betrothed. Moreover, he likely views her as a challenge, one he would rather not spend time on when his other conquests fall so easily. As he swallows another mouthful of wine, he briefly thinks of his son and Brandon Stark. Young men are such fools, he muses, for I have always enjoyed a challenge.  
  


* * *

  
“He only wants to speak of fighting and swordplay,” Lysa laments as she sits on her bed, Catelyn kneeling behind her to brush out her hair. “I try to act interested, honestly, Cat, I do, but it is simply so boring.”  
  
“He is recently knighted, sweet sister,” Catelyn soothes, stroking her fingers through her sister’s locks before snatching a ribbon from the nightstand and beginning to plait her hair into a loose braid. “And young, still, for all that he is of an age to be betrothed. He will likely want to talk of fighting and swordplay for many years more. But then, as he grows, he will wish to talk of other things, of marriage and children and of ruling the West. And there you will be, to help him along the way.”  
  
“But he pokes fun at Petyr, Cat,” Lysa says, and Catelyn can hear her face fall.  
  
“Again, he is still very much a boy,” Catelyn replies, though she can honestly say that she is not very happy with Ser Jaime’s treatment of Petyr. “Mayhap you should talk to him, explain how we think of Petyr as a brother. I’m sure he would never willfully insult someone we deem as family if he knew that it hurt you.”  
  
“Mayhap you’re right,” Lysa says after several moments’ contemplation. “Oh, Cat,” she says as Catelyn finishes the braid, a wide smile on her face as she turns to face her sister, “can you imagine it? The both of us as the ladies of great houses! I was so envious of you when Father made your betrothal to Brandon Stark, you know. He is just so handsome and rugged. But then Father said I could marry Ser Jaime. Oh, Catelyn, won’t it be wonderful!”  
  
“It will,” Catelyn assures, hoping she sounds sincere. She has been betrothed since she was two and ten, had flowered at four and ten, and yet, at seven and ten, was still unmarried and residing at Riverrun. It would be different if her betrothed were her age, or even younger, for it did happen, but Brandon was nearly twenty, but still did not press for a wedding. Though he had never discussed such with her, Catelyn knew, via her uncle, that her father was pressing Lord Rickard for a wedding date, but so far, none was quick in coming. She had also heard, courtesy of the maids, of her betrothed’s philandering ways, especially after a maid was dismissed shortly after Brandon’s last visit.

“We can visit each other often,” Lysa continues, ignoring her sister’s thoughtfulness. “When it gets too cold in Winterfell, you can come south and stay at Casterly Rock. I’m sure Ser Jaime will not mind. And our children can play together and become friends, and then they can play with Edmure’s children as well someday. And we will not have to worry about Lord Lannister hovering everywhere. Since he is Hand of the King, he’ll be gone quite often. We can even visit court! The good daughter of the Hand and her sister, we would certainly be welcome!”  
  
“I fear you overestimate the joys of court,” Catelyn tells her, thinking back to her own visit several years past. It had seemed to her then that court was a glittering spectacle of false smiles and jealous whispers. And the king, with his long nails and gaunt face, had unnerved her more than she cared to admit.  
  
“You can say that, of course,” Lysa whines, frowning at her sister. “You’ve been there. Father wouldn’t take me.”  
  
“You were too young, Lysa,” Catelyn reminds her, turning back the bed covers.  
  
“That is what you all always say,” Lysa replies somewhat petulantly, though she complies with her sister’s silent request and climbs beneath the blankets. “And if we did avoid court,” she begins thoughtfully as Catelyn strolls about the room, extinguishing candles, “we could avoid Lord Lannister. I cannot even bring myself to look him in the eye. He is rather frightening.”  
  
“He is not frightening,” Catelyn chides as she sits beside her sister. “He is intimidating, I’ll admit, but he is the second most powerful man in the kingdom, and certainly the wealthiest. He did not get there by being a friend to all. He is a hard man, but he has raised his house back to a high position in the realm. And looking to wed his son to you, to a daughter of House Tully, shows how much he values his name, the legacy of his house.” Clasping Lysa’s hand in her own, she says, “He is a man for you to respect, sweet sister, not fear. Now sleep, sweetling.”  
  
“Oh, Cat,” she says quietly, shrugging somewhat. Tugging on her sister’s hand, Lysa says, “Stay here tonight, Catelyn. Please. We will not be able much longer.”  
  
“Oh, alright,” Catelyn relents while grinning as she blows out the last candle, shrugging off her dressing gown and slipping in beside her sister.  
  
“Maybe you are right,” Lysa says after several moments, and Catelyn can tell her sister is mulling something over. She doesn’t bother to open her eyes, knows that rushing Lysa will do no good. “But how you stand it, Catelyn, I simply do not know.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Cat asks, rolling over to face her sister. The night is warm so there is no fire in the hearth. She can only see her sister’s face in the moonlight that trickles in through the windows, but she sees Lysa looking at her intently.  
  
“The way he watches you, Lord Lannister,” Lysa explains, turning onto her side, a look of concern on her face. “It’s as though he doesn’t want to let you out of his sight. He studies you.”  
  
“He likely studies all of us,” Catelyn dismisses, not wanting her sister to worry. She knows that Lysa cannot appear weak, not in front of Lord Tywin Lannister. But she has felt his eyes upon her, has felt the weight of his gaze follow her about the room from time to time since his arrival with his son. But Lord Lannister is an influential, perceptive man; it only makes sense that his gaze would be sharp. “In much the same way that I am sure Father and Uncle Brynden study him and Ser Jaime.”  
  
“If you say so,” Lysa says with a shrug, snuggling deeper into her pillow.  
  
“I do,” she says, grasping her sister’s hand between them. “Now, sleep. You want to look your best on the morrow.”  
  
A slew of giggles between them, the two drift off to sleep.  
  


* * *

In the week since he had chastised Jaime and reminded him of his duty, Tywin had been reasonably pleased with the change in his son’s behavior. He had seemed more attentive to Lady Lysa’s sensibilities, both in what would entertain her and what would not insult her – namely more quips aimed at Littlefinger – but he still wanted to spend too much time in the training yard. Fortunately, he had taken to entertaining Edmure in the yard, which had endeared him to the young Tully girl. In fact, she was currently occupied with watching the two of them, cheering both her brother and his son as they took turns at the archery butts. Neither are terribly skilled, for Jaime’s true talent is with a sword, but it seems to cheer the young heir that a knight is little better than he, so Tywin will take it as a victory.  
  
He can see clearly that Lysa is taken with Jaime, no matter how much his son clamors that he does not want to marry. Just this morning, he, Lord Hoster, and Ser Brynden had discussed the betrothal in more concrete terms, but the Lord of Riverrun is wily, never giving too much away, and it is clear to Tywin that he is still not convinced that a betrothal to Jaime is what is best for his daughter. He wants to rage at that thought, at the notion that anyone could be better than his son, but his face remains impassive, his words cordial, even when Brynden directs subtle jibes his way. Of course, Tywin knows he has no need to respond to the self-named Blackfish, not when his brother quickly shoos him from the room, clearly not amused with the man’s attempt at humor, and quickly begins to smooth over any perceived slights the younger Tully had caused.  
  
It amuses him a bit, he has to admit as he strolls through the godswood at Riverrun, to watch the interactions between Lord Hoster and Ser Brynden. He would never tolerate any of his brothers to speak in such a way to a guest at the Rock, certainly not one visiting to seek a betrothal. Tywin had always heard that Brynden Tully was short-tempered, but from what he has observed, there is nothing in the man that couldn’t be tamed if only Hoster would take initiative. In many ways, Brynden is not unlike Tygett, and Tywin put him in his place easily enough years ago. Lord Hoster could do the same and not risk future humiliation. But then, from the time the Blackfish had spurned the betrothal to some Redwyne girl, he had been embarrassing his house, so mayhap by now, Hoster is used to it. It is not something he would tolerate, of course, but then he prides himself on having more control over members of his house than most.  
  
The Riverrun godswood is beautiful, though it’s damnably humid. Casterly Rock is always temperate, its climate relegated by the Sunset Sea, never too warm or too cold and never so humid, and while King’s Landing is certainly hot and occasionally humid, the Narrow Sea still regulates it. But here, the humidity is atrocious. He tugs at the high neck of his jerkin even as he feels his under tunic sticking to the skin of his lower back, and in the solitude of the godswood, he thinks to complain, to grumble aloud the thoughts in his head. But a movement from the corner of his eye stays his tongue, and as he studies it more closely, the side of his mouth twitches, as though it may actually tug upward in some semblance of a long-forgotten smile, as he leans against a nearby tree.

There, lying a few feet from the bank of the river, basking in the sunlight, lays Lady Catelyn. Both arms are stretched out behind her and her back arches slightly off the ground as she stretches leisurely, her blue gown clinging to her with every movement, allowing him to take in her assets, finding nothing wanting. Her eyes are closed, a peaceful grin on her face as she folds one arm under her head and rests her other hand on her flat belly. Slowly, Tywin watches one knee bend upward, and he suddenly imagines a very similar movement, only this one being in a bed, specifically his, him guiding that knee up over his hip. It was not his intent to seduce the elder daughter of Riverrun on this trip, but she has intrigued him. She will be wasted on the North, of this he is certain. Even her lord father laments the distance that will be put between them when she weds, even as he laments the continual delay from the Starks in the next breath. Hoster loves his daughters, this much is obvious, but he seems to have forgotten that a daughter’s duty is to serve not only her house well, but also the one she marries into. The man would be better off wedding Lysa to the North and Catelyn elsewhere, but he supposes that is Hoster’s folly. Still, mayhap he can teach her a few things before he leaves. If nothing else, it will be something to help keep her warm on those cold northern nights.  
  
It is as he contemplates how best to approach her that Tywin sees her frown slightly, sees her lean up on her elbows and start to look around. He is impressed, for he knows that he made no sound, yet Catelyn could sense that she was not alone. She starts to visibly relax as she spots no one immediately, and that is when he makes his presence known, stepping back into the sunlight just as her eyes fall to where he stands. She gives a pronounced jerk, and he must suppress a predatory smirk as he stops several feet away from her. Holding his hands up, palms facing her, he says, “My apologies, Lady Catelyn. I did not mean to startle you.”  
  
“No apology is necessary, my lord,” Catelyn answers with a shake of her head, and he is impressed that she can so quickly regain her composure.  
  
“I had thought to see a bit of your godswood whilst my son uses the training yard,” he continues, walking closer and extending a hand to help her rise. With a smile of gratitude, she places her hand in his larger one and he pulls her gently yet swiftly to her feet. Catelyn is tall for a woman, just a head shorter than he, and standing so close to her now, he can see her pale complexion slightly pink, indicative of how long she had spent lounging in the sun.  
  
“Thank you, my lord,” Catelyn says, ever courteous as she drops a small curtsey. “If you wish to continue alone, my lord, I will not disturb you.”  
  
“On the contrary, Lady Catelyn,” Tywin begins, recognizing an opportunity where he has found one, “I would like your company. You know far more of this place than I.”  
  
“If it pleases, my lord,” Catelyn replies, “I would be glad to accompany you.”  
  
“Splendid,” he tells her, allowing his eyes to express his pleasure at her consent as he extends an arm before them. “Shall we?”

They walk for several moments and he says nothing, studying her as she points out different plants and trees. She is engaging without being demanding, maintains conversation without requiring his input, though she seems a bit unsure of what to make of his silence. He walks with his hands clasped behind his back, studying her carefully in his peripheral vision. If she is uneasy, her posture does not give it away even if he does notice the rise and fall of her chest occurring a bit quicker. It is as he allows his gaze to drift lower that he smirks in amusement.  
  
“I notice the hem of your gown is wet, my lady,” he observes, never turning to her but can see her shock as her eyes dart downward. “Am I to assume, then, it is true what they say of trout and rivers?”

Tywin looks at her then, wants to see how she will handle the barb, if she will rise to his challenge or cower. Though her eyes are still cast down, he can see a healthy flush rise in her neck and face, and he finds it most fetching. “I know not if we draw our strength from the river, my lord,” she begins, not turning to face him gazing up at him in her periphery, “for we can survive, and I daresay thrive, without it, but we do enjoy the river true enough.”  
  
“I see,” Tywin says, assessing her answer. She caught on to his meaning well enough, and her answer was witty enough to show it but not impudent. Satisfied that he will likely not find himself disappointed in her conversational ability, for that would quickly deter him in his pursuit, he continues, saying, “I presume that you and your siblings have enjoyed this portion of the river many times.”  
  
“My sister and I, yes, my lord,” Catelyn explains with a smile, and he can see that this is a topic that brings her much joy, “but there is a better spot in the bend up ahead. The current is slower up here, the water a bit deeper, far safer for when we were teaching Edmure to swim. In the middle of the river, the current is much faster, especially in the straight portions. It can be swum, and we have done so many times, but just there,” she says, pointing to the place they are approaching, “is much better.”  
  
“I see,” he repeats, imagining her in the river. He will not be so forward as to ask what she wears when she swims, but he can imagine a shift, wet and clinging, or mayhap nothing, a thought which pleases him greatly. But for now, he has more pressing things to attend to, things he needs to know to help him proceed. “And what will you do in Winterfell, my lady? I presume you know it too cold to swim there.”  
  
“I do indeed, my lord,” Catelyn replies, and he studies her face discreetly but intently, seeing that though her smile does not falter, it no longer shines in her eyes. “but I have been told by Lord Brandon of hot springs that may be suitable for swimming. I am sure that will suffice. And besides,” she adds with a small shrug, “I will likely have no time for such pursuits when I am Lady of Winterfell. There will be too much that needs be done.”  
  
“You know your duty well, my lady,” Tywin appraises. The Tully’s live for their house words, Catelyn is no different. But now would come the real test. “It is a shame that Lord Brandon will not allow you to do it.”  
  
He sees her head snap around to look squarely at him, and he is inwardly triumphant. “Beg pardon, my lord?”  
  
“Think nothing of it, child,” Tywin dismisses with a wave of his hand, though he watches her closely in his periphery. “I spoke without thinking.” The words are delivered smoothly, as though he actually believes them himself. He can see, however, by the brief rise of her eyebrows that she does not. Just as quickly, he watches her school her features back to a placid expression, and he is once again impressed. Looking back at her now, he is quite smug as he asks, “You doubt me, Lady Catelyn?”  
  
Tywin watches her closely, has an excuse to do so now, and can see the unspoken answer to his question in her eyes. Still, she does not speak, and he knows she will not do so for fear of insulting. “Speak what is on your mind, Lady Catelyn. I would hear it.”  
  
“I do not wish to offend, Lord Lannister,” she begins, and though she is hesitant, her words are firm and her eyes do not leave his. Tywin gives her a quick nod to encourage her to continue, so she says, “From what I understand of you, my lord, words do not cross your lips without thought behind them.”  
  
Tywin gives an amused huff, and he knows that some twinkling of impressed amusement crinkles the corners of his eyes, but the corner of his lip only tugs slightly. “Clever girl,” he mutters, and he wonders if she realizes just how high a compliment he has bestowed. He might have said more had he not heard the sound of footsteps drawing nearer, and both he and Catelyn stopped to look behind them, seeing the Baelish ward trot into the clearing.

“Cat!” he calls, waving eagerly.  
  
Tywin could have cursed the boy his timing, but does not let such show as the ward draws himself up in front of the pair. “My lord,” the small lad huffs with a quick bow. “Cat,” Petyr says, his beady eyes drinking in the woman at his side, “I knew I would find you here.” He smiles as though he is the greatest of trackers, and Tywin must look away to hide his distaste. “I told them I could find you,” the boy says, almost gloating.  
  
“Well, you have certainly found her, boy,” Tywin snaps, his ire getting the best of him. “Now mayhap you will not waste more of her time and tell her why it is you seek her.”  
  
“Utherydes is looking for you,” Petyr says, much of the enthusiasm gone from his voice. “Something about the final plans for the feast. He wants to review them with you.”  
  
“Of course,” Catelyn replies, with a nod and a kind smile for the boy. As Petyr beams, she throws a quick glance Tywin’s way, and he can see that he has made the same misstep as his son, as she has taken offense for the ward. This he must rectify, quickly.  
  
“I’ll walk you back to the castle,” Petyr volunteers, almost giddy at the thought.  
  
“That will not be necessary, young Baelish,” Tywin answers quickly, before the woman at his side can speak. “I will escort Lady Catelyn back to the castle.” As though to emphasize the point, he takes her hand and wraps it around his forearm. He sees the action spark anger in the lad, for it is a mark of possessiveness plain and simple, but the boy is in no position to challenge. Looking the boy squarely in the eye, letting him know that he has been bested, Tywin says, “You may go.”  
  
Petyr, to his credit, does not try to beg a different outcome from Catelyn. He simply bows to the pair, then turns and walks slowly back toward the castle.  
  
Tywin waits until the boy is out of sight before they begin to walk. He can feel the anger from his companion, but she does not act. Not, at least, until he gives her permission. “As before, Lady Catelyn, I would hear what you think.”  
  
“You need not speak to him so cruelly,” Catelyn snaps, and he is not sure if it is her anger that is giving her leave to speak so boldly, of if she is simply that brave. He suspects the former, she is still young for all that she acts a woman grown, and he knows she must learn to control the impulse.  
  
“And he need not look at you so lasciviously,” Tywin replies, watching her pointedly as his words sink in.  
  
“He does nothing of the sort,” Catelyn balks, eyes wide. “Petyr is like my little brother, like Edmure.”  
  
“No brother should look upon his sister with such eyes, my lady,” Tywin tells her. “Your father thought to do the boy a kindness, raising him alongside his trueborn children, but he has actually done the lad a disservice. He is beneath you, all of you, and he needs learn his place. Whatever he dreams of with you can never be, and you do him no favors by encouraging him.”  
  
“I would not think to encourage anything in him other than the acceptance he may feel as my brother, nothing more,” Catelyn defends.  
  
“Any kindness feeds his thoughts of grandeur,” Tywin warns her, “and it seems to matter not to him that you are betrothed. He will not stop unless you put it to an end firmly. He is not worthy of you.” After a moment, watching her take in his words, he adds, “Of course, neither is your betrothed.”  
  
“Is it your intention to now speak ill of my betrothed, Lord Lannister?” Catelyn asks boldly. He can see that she is still angry, but by the look on her face, he sees that it is not anger prompting the question, and he is glad of it.  
  
“I speak ill of no one, Lady Catelyn,” Tywin retorts. “My words are merely truth. Petyr Baelish is not worthy of you. He may prove clever, may make something of himself in the end, but is still below you regardless. And Brandon Stark, though heir to the North, is unworthy of you as well.”  
  
“And why is that? Because he must wait to rule instead of ruling now?” she asks incredulously. Catelyn is riled, is beautiful as such, and he would love nothing more than to see how far he could push her in such a state, what she might do, but her stubborn sarcasm is testing his patience and they are approaching the castle. He needs to rein her in before they are seen.

“He is not worthy of you, my lady, because he does not see the value in you,” Tywin all but growls as he catches her wrists and pulls her close, shielding them both behind a large redwood. He can feel her breath catch as she falls into him, and he would feel rather smug about it if his temper were not flaring. “There is much in you to be appreciated, Lady Catelyn, and if Lord Brandon were worthy of you, he would not leave you here, languishing as you await your wedding day while he tumbles from one bed to another across the North.” He sees her eyes darken at these words, and he smirks with this tiniest of victories. “Oh yes, I know well how Lord Brandon chooses to honor his betrothal. Most do, my lady, including yourself, by the look of it. Your betrothed is a fool, and therefore unworthy of you. For if he were truly worthy, you would be in Winterfell with his heir in your belly, if not already at your breast.”  
  
Tywin stops, his last declaration delivered in a voice just above a whisper as he pulled her that much closer, until they were mere inches apart. He waits on his words to sink in, to see the seed he’s planted take root. She never looks away from him, even when he speaks so blatantly of her betrothed getting a babe on her, only squints as she studies his face, thinks over the things he has said. And it is when he sees her jaw tighten that he is satisfied, that he releases her and steps back. Nodding back toward the castle, Tywin turns so that he is looking into the godswood, her at his right shoulder. “Away with you.”  
  
Catelyn remains for only a moment, and he wonders if she will challenge him again, protest what he has said. But then she goes, disappears from his periphery, and he hears her slippered feet tread softly, steadily across the grass. Gazing off into the distance, the wheels turn in Tywin’s mind as he assesses their conversation. She is quick, witty, but will hold her tongue unless asked to speak. She keeps up with him well enough, and not many can. This pleases him, for his pursuit would be far less enjoyable if she were a simpleton. And while she was thrown momentarily at the mention of her betrothed’s dalliances, it seemed due more to the fact that he would actually mention it rather than her lack of knowledge of it. If his straightforwardness startled her, all the better. At least she now knows exactly what she will get in him. And she hadn’t run from it, from him. When she had left, Catelyn’s steps were sure, unhurried. She was no more frightened of him than he was of her. Quite a success, he decides finally, with a smirk, and as he strolls back to the castle, he cannot help but look forward to the next step in this little dance.  
  


* * *

  
The feast is a success, and Catelyn feels a small measure of pride in that. She has long managed the household and gatherings of this nature, but rarely have they ever had visitors on par with the Lannisters. This feast is meant to impress, to encourage Lord Lannister to ally his house with theirs. As such, a great deal was put on display for this evening, from the lavish decorations to the fine gowns and fancy tunics worn by her, her siblings, and Petyr, to the extensive guest list, including House Mallister, House Bracken, House Piper, both branches of House Vance, House Hawick, House Butterwell, House Vypren, House Lychester, House Deddings, and House Frey. The Blackwoods were left off the guest list primarily due to their longstanding feud with House Bracken and, when she had to choose between the two, she worried their continued adherence to the Old Gods might be off-putting to the Lannisters. The Freys had to be invited, no matter how distasteful she found old Lord Walder, as his house is one of the richest in the Riverlands and his good daughter the sister of Lord Lannister. Thankfully, the old lord did not choose to attend, likely smarting over the fact that her father had not chosen to wed her or her sister to one of his sons, and had instead sent Lord Stevron, a much more amiable man in her opinion. Of course, Lady Genna and her husband had come, though little Lord Emmon has done little more than sit in his chair and stare nervously at the crowd as his wife talks and laughs and quickly silences him when he tries to do so.

The meal was wonderful, a menu completely put together by her, with each course better than the last, and none had gone wanting for more. Now there is dancing, and as she lets Edmure attempt to lead her around the floor, Catelyn lets the stress of the last few days leave her. It wasn’t just the planning for the feast, pouring over menus and organizing seating and decorating and the like. It was doing so with the memory of her conversation with Lord Lannister looming in the back of her mind. She had played the entire conversation over and over in her head, trying to make sense of it. A small part of her, the part she could admit was slightly intimidated of the man, had thought to run to Uncle Brynden. The practical part of her had quickly quelled that idea. For all that he had said, Lord Lannister had not crossed any lines. He had not spoken inappropriately, only brusquely, had not touched her in a way that would be unseemly, only held her closer than her father or uncle might like. Had she told Brynden, he would have made more of it than was necessary. And it was not as though anything Lord Lannister had said had been incorrect. In some ways, Catelyn had actually found it somewhat flattering, for him to talk with her so openly, as though he valued her opinion and believed she had the ability to think for herself, to hear him speak so highly of her, particularly when he spoke of Brandon.  
  
As the song ends, Edmure cheers loudly, his young face flush with the exertion of the dance. Though it was not a particularly spirited dance, his little legs had to work twice as hard to keep up, but he was undaunted. Catelyn laughs as he takes her hand and, like a proper little lord, bows over it as he presses a kiss to the back of it. She laughs even louder when he stands again and launches himself at her, wrapping his arms around her waist.  
  
“Thank you for the dance, my lord,” she says politely as she hugs the boy tightly.  
  
“Thank you, my lady,” Edmure replies, grinning broadly.  
  
“Well done, boy,” a booming voice calls as a hand lands on Edmure’s shoulder. “Now,” Brynden says, nodding in the direction of Lysa, who has just ended a dance with Petyr, “run along and dance with your other sister like a good lad. I should like a dance with our Little Cat.”  
  
“Of course, Uncle,” Edmure answers, darting off through the crowd to ask Lysa for a dance.  
  
“He will wear himself out in an hour’s time,” Brynden says with a chuckle as he holds out his hand to his niece.  
  
“Then I suppose I shall see him to bed in an hour,” Catelyn replies as the musicians strike up again, accepting his hand and letting him lead her into the next dance.  
  
“You have done well with him, Catelyn,” Brynden praises as they move about the dance floor. “You shall make a fine mother. And hopefully, soon.”  
  
“Has Father received word from the North?” Catelyn asks, surprised. She has heard nothing of this, and that is odd, for her father includes her in everything.  
  
“Not as of late, he would have told you,” Brynden tells her, the soft chide in his voice letting her know that he recognizes that she momentarily doubted her father. “But it shall be soon, it must be.”  
  
“As you say,” Catelyn says, hoping to let the conversation drop. She will not tell her uncle of her doubts, the ones that were strengthened by her conversation with Lord Lannister. She is a Tully, she will do her duty. If Brandon will allow, a small part of her whispers, echoing the words spoken to her in the godswood.  
  
“You would think he has nothing else to look at,” Brynden mutters, drawing her from her thoughts. She follows his eye line and finds him gazing up at the high table. She does not need to look any further, for she knows who her uncle has seen. The weight of his gaze has followed her this whole evening. If she is being honest, she had first noticed it after Lysa had made mention of it, but had felt it much more often since that day in the godswood. Tonight, however, Catelyn had felt as though his eyes had never left her once, though she had done her best to put it out of her mind.

“I am sure you are just imagining things, Uncle,” Catelyn tries to soothe, hoping to once again find another change of topic. “He likely only seeks to appraise the house to which he would bind his own if he agrees to the betrothal with Lysa.” She is grateful for her quick thinking as she adds, “Has it been decided?”  
  
“Not yet,” Brynden answers with a shake of his head. “They have at least a moon yet before they will leave, and I believe your father and the Old Lion will use all that time to dance around one another in the negotiations. But it does not give the man leave to stare at you as he wishes.”  
  
“Oh, Uncle,” Catelyn sighs as he twirls her about. It was bad enough when, during her dance with Ser Jaime, the young knight had commented on his gratitude that she had been such a wonderful distraction to his father while they were there. She had hoped the lad had just been running off at the mouth – after all, she had seen him imbibe quite a bit over the course of the evening – and had meant nothing. To hear Brynden speak of it now only made it more real, and all the more mortifying.  
  
“Jest not, Little Cat,” Brynden answers seriously as they continue through the steps of the dance. “Lord Tywin is powerful, eloquent, but remember that he never speaks without thought given to the words that leave his mouth.”  
  
“I know all of this, Uncle,” Catelyn tells him, though his words remind of ones very similar she spoke to the man in question.  
  
“Aye, that you do,” Bryden says, “but I also know that you are young, for all that you are lady of this house, and you have a very good future ahead of you. Lord Tywin need not be a part of that.”  
  
“The only role that I hope Lord Lannister to play in my future will be that of good father to my sister,” Catelyn replies dutifully. “Nothing more.”  
  
“Very well,” Brynden says, studying her momentarily before giving a quick nod, satisfied. They finish the dance with rather banal conversation, and for that, Catelyn is grateful. She has to figure out a way to get him to stop watching her, for if her uncle sees it, surely her father does, and that will not bode well in their negotiations of Lysa’s betrothal.  
  
When the dance ends, Catelyn makes her way to the Head Table, in need of drink. The wine is cool, refreshing as she quickly finishes almost half the goblet before she stops herself. It will do no good to get into her cups.  
  
“Careful there, my dear,” a cheerful voice calls from her side, and she sets the drink down as Lady Genna Frey takes the seat at her side. “You have played a fine hostess this evening. It would not do to lose yourself in drink.”  
  
“Indeed, Lady Frey,” Catelyn says politely as she folds her hands demurely in her lap. “Have you enjoyed your evening, my lady? I apologize that we have not been free to converse before now.”  
  
“My evening has been wonderfully spent, child,” the older woman says with a smile, though the way her eyes rake over Catelyn leaves her with the sneaking suspicion that she is being scrutinized, “but if you must observe your courtesies, which I suppose any dutiful Tully would, call me Lady Genna, or even Lady Lannister. I am not overly fond of the Frey.” As though to emphasize her point, she nods back toward her husband, sitting several chairs down and looking very much like a timid child.  
  
“As you wish, Lady Genna,” Catelyn replies, not quite comfortable with calling the woman ‘Lannister’ when she has been married to a Frey for nearly thirty years. “I am glad for this chance to speak with you now. I feel I have been rather derelict in my duties to have only greeted you upon your arrival.”  
  
“Child, you have been busy, and a most appropriate hostess. You act as a marvelous Lady of Riverrun, honoring your late mother’s memory in the process. If only we could persuade dear Cersei to act as such,” Lady Genna laments, though it sounds put on to Catelyn’s ears, and while the woman affects a faraway look, she can sense the appraisal in her green eyes. A moment passes in silence, and Catelyn is unsure how to respond when Genna once focuses her gaze directly upon her and says, “No wonder you have my brother’s attention."

Catelyn gapes at the lady, though she knows it is not proper. She cannot help it. She could ignore Jaime and play off her uncle’s well-intentioned warnings, but to hear Lady Genna speak so bluntly is more than she is able to process.  
  
“All is well, child,” Genna replies as she leans close, a pleased smile on her face as she taps lightly under Catelyn’s chin, effectively reminding her to shut her mouth, before patting the hands the girl clasped in her lap. “I have known my brother for many years now, and he does not give much away. But I have learned to read him, to know when something has caught his interest. And you have, my dear. That is a good thing,” Genna assures her, undoubtedly in response to what Catelyn can only assume is a horrified expression on her face. “Interest in you is more likely to bring about a betrothal for your sister. Be glad of this.”  
  
Catelyn is rendered speechless, a thoroughly undignified position for any hostess to be found in. Little relief arrive, however, as she watches Lady Genna’s smile grow even broader as she looks over Catelyn’s shoulder. “Hello, brother.”  
  
“Genna,” Tywin says in a low rumble, and even though the man stands behind her, Catelyn knows from his tone that one brow is arched as he looks upon his sister, studying her. “I trust you have been telling Lady Catelyn how much you are enjoying yourself this evening.”  
  
“Of course, brother,” Genna answers, still smirking. “Well,” the older woman starts, looking out to the dance floor, “it would seem that the next dance is about to commence, I would rather like to claim Ser Blackfish for this one. If you will both excuse me.” She stands then and moves to walk past Catelyn, past her brother, though as she goes, Catelyn is sure she hears a muttered ‘Careful’ from Lord Lannister, though she cannot be certain with all the noise in the hall.  
  
The musicians are once again starting a new song, this one a bit slower, and Catelyn is surprised, as she surveys the room, to see his hand appear in her periphery. Turning, she looks over her shoulder to seem him eyeing her inscrutably, though he does not withdraw the invitation, and with a slight tilt of his head, beckons her to accept. Catelyn does not need to look about the room to know that more than half the occupants are watching them, and she knows that it would be highly improper to decline, for she has no reason to do so, at least not that any of them know. She thus accepts, placing her hand in his and allowing him to pull her to her feet, leading her from the dais.  
  
“What are you doing, my lord?” she asks quietly as they take their positions for the dance. She knows the tune, is aware that this is a much more intimate dance than most that have been played this evening, and as the hand at her waist pulls her just a fraction of an inch closer, she does all she can not to react, knowing that many, her father and uncle included, are watching.  
  
“I believe this is called a dance,” Lord Lannister answers airily, as though the question is beneath him to even answer.  
  
“Oh, do not play coy,” she snaps in a whisper, and at once wants to curse herself for losing her cool, especially when she sees the amusement in his eyes at her outburst.  
  
“I am not being coy, my lady,” he replies evenly, his face the picture of propriety. “My intention was to ask a lady to dance, and as I appear to be dancing with said lady, I would call myself successful.”  
  
“Why me?” Catelyn asks, even as she looks to the side and offers her father a small smile as he studies her from where he has retaken his seat at the Head Table. “Why now? Why this song?”  
  
“I had intended to dance with you this evening, but had yet to find an opening,” Lord Lannister answers, his face giving nothing away. “I have shared multiple dances with your sister, the girl to whom my son may soon be betrothed, as well as several of the ladies of the Riverlands. It would seem only appropriate that I also share at least one dance with you, my lady, who may soon be my son’s good sister.”  
  
“And this particular song, my lord?” she asks.

His answers are proper, what one would expect, but she cannot help but sense there is more at work here. Apparently she is right, as she recognizes the appraising tick of his eyebrow even as the hand at her hip tightens its hold ever so slightly, the only answer her query receives. To keep from stumbling, she must step that much closer to him, and he holds her there, solidly in his space, so close that with each inhale, her bodice scrapes against his jerkin. Those inhales come faster now, even as the dance slows before reaching its crescendo. She will not look away, not even when she is forced to almost look straight up to meet his gaze, not even when the hand at her waist slips lower, staying just high enough to be proper but low enough to challenge propriety all the same. She is betrothed, Catelyn is well aware that the whole room knows this, but she also knows that he believes her betrothed a fool, so is that why he acts this way? Is that why she sees something in his eyes, a spark that she cannot name – will not name – even as she feels its answer begin to burn in her belly. Catelyn fights to control her breathing, does not want to be seen to be affected and as such, digs her nails into the back of the hand that holds hers.  
  
It is just the slightest movement, the slightest flinch before he recovers, but it is enough to spur her onward, to tighten her grip to the point that it is almost painful, taking pleasure in the knowledge that there will be crescent shaped indentations on the back of his hand when this dance concludes. She is not foolish enough to think that he will allow her to break skin, and part of her doubts she has the strength, but Catelyn is glad that he will at least bear some mark when they part, even as she must bear the weight of all their stares. Lord Tywin is grinding his teeth, she can see the working of his jaw, but otherwise, his face reveals nothing, even as he presses against her lower back in challenge, closing what little distance remains between them. Her breath hitches, the warmth in her belly spreading, and it is all she can do to keep her head about her, even as she bears down upon his hand with all her might.  
  
Blessedly, cursedly, the song ends, and Catelyn must stop herself from leaping away from him even as there is some small part of her that wants to attempt to press closer still. Falling back upon her courtesies, thankful that her septa had drilled them into her very instinct, she politely curtseys, thanks him for the dance, and promptly walks away. She is sure to speak with several guests as she puts distance between herself and Lord Lannister, stopping to ask if they are pleased with their accommodations or would like more drink, and quickly sidesteps her uncle, who has disengaged himself from Lady Genna and is attempting to follow her. Signaling for a nearby servant to bring another round of wine, Catelyn slips through a side door, escapes into a darkened passage for a brief moment of solitude to collect her thoughts.  
  
With the sounds of the feast little more than a hum in the background, Catelyn pushes open a small window and breathes in the fresh air, hoping that it will cool the fire in her belly. Awash in the sound and scent of the night, she allows herself to recognize that she knows this feeling. Brandon had elicited such when he was last in Riverrun, stealing kisses in the godswood, but it was never this strong.  
  
“Are you ill, my lady?”  
  
Catelyn spins around, startled. She had not heard him approach, but there, lit only by the rays of the moon that pass through the window, stands Lord Lannister. His words are cordial enough, but he reminds her of a predator on the hunt. Just the sight of him reignites the fire, and without thought, she turns to flee. But before she can take more than three steps, he is on her, snatching her elbow, pulling her back, pulling her into him.  
  
“What are you doing?!” she cries breathlessly, repeating her previous question as he turns her to face him.  
  
“This,” he whispers, bending to seal his lips over her own.

Catelyn stops breathing altogether at the first brush of his lips over hers. But he is insistent, of course, and it is against her will that her eyes slip shut as his hand slips over her cheek and down to cup the back of her neck. Catelyn feels his other hand slide to her waist then further around, strong fingers sprawling across her lower back. It is as he presses her close that she begins to breathe again, gasping at the intimate contact. He takes advantage, sweeping his tongue into her mouth in confident strokes that weaken her knees, causing her to slide her hands up his chest and dig her fingers into his jerkin. Brandon has kissed her, but never like this, and slowly, she forgets why this is not a good idea, begins to respond to him. But it is not until his mouth leaves hers, trails down her neck in a series of licks and bites to the juncture with her shoulder that she moans airily, lolls her head to the side as one hand slips into his short blonde hair, holding him against her. “Gods!”  
  
“Shhh,” he chides with a nip to her collarbone. He growls at her sharp intake of breath, and the rumble of it makes her shiver. “You do not want anyone to find us here, my lady.”  
  
“No – oh!” Catelyn sighs as he grinds against her. He is leisurely in his movements, as though he has all the time in the world, unlike Brandon, who always seemed in a hurry. Without thought, she begins to roll her hips against his, pressing against that hard length that digs into her belly. She knows what that is, knows that she should be horrified by what they are doing, by what she is doing, but Catelyn can do nothing but feel, and when he brings his mouth back to hers, she responds with gusto, grinning against his lips when she feels as well as hears the groan roll up from his chest.  
  
Catelyn knows not how long they remain there, only that she does not want this feeling to end, this feeling of chasing something just beyond her reach, something she should be able to grasp. She pushes harder, hears his echoing grunt, and just as the added friction pushes her ever closer to that elusive … thing … she is chasing, Catelyn feels a hand brush across her bodice, fingers diving swiftly into the laces there, and it is as though she has been slapped.  
  
“No!” she cries breathily, wrenching herself from his grasp and stumbling away. Her hands quickly go to her bodice as she begins to re-lace what his surprisingly nimble fingers had quickly undone. Her chest heaves, her blood pounds in her ears, and Catelyn is suddenly lightheaded, throwing a hand out against the wall to keep from falling. But her arm is shaky, and before it can give out, she spins, falling back against the wall, letting the cool stone help calm her. With one arm across her chest and the other wrapped protectively around her waist, Catelyn finally looks to Lord Lannister.  
  
The Lion of the Rock stands perfectly still, almost as a statue, but his face is awash with something she has not seen there before. He is angry, she can see that in the set of his jaw. Likely he had hoped for something that she is unable to give, that her duty will not allow her to give. But his brows are furrowed, his sharp gaze raking her head to toe. Catelyn knows not what he sees, but whatever it is has given him pause, and in the interim, has given her time to collect her wits.  
  
“This should not have happened,” she whispers quietly, though the words seem to echo from the walls of the corridor.  
  
“Indeed, my lady,” Lord Lannister replies quietly. His answer is a surprise, for she cannot imagine he does anything without calculated thought behind it. She is no siren, has no wiles to tempt a man so controlled to let go of it all. This had to have been a part of whatever plan he has, but now he had admitted it should not have occurred. She would be mad not to consider this sudden change of heart and what it means.  
  
“You are not my husband,” Catelyn says, needing to say something to fill the silence as his gaze never waivers from her, “nor my betrothed.”

“I am not, this is true,” he says finally, and the way his face has changed, subtly, but the change is there, it would seem as though he has reached some conclusion. With a courtly bow, Lord Lannister continues, saying, “By your leave, my lady, I shall return to the feast. And so should you,” he begins as he turns, “when you have collected yourself.” And with hands clasped behind him, he strolls purposefully back toward the Great Hall, as though nothing had taken place.  
  
She watches until he disappears into the darkness, though she still hears the fall of his boots. He is unrushed, and Catelyn is left to wonder if she was the only one affected so by what has just passed between them. But she cannot worry about that now, not when he was right. She does need to return to the feast, for if anyone notices her absence, or his, or gods forbid both, it will not go well. Her heart is still quickened, but it slows with each breath she draws in evenly, calmly. With a quick check, Catelyn finds that her hair is still in its intricate braids, piled neatly atop her head. A glance at her reflection in the window reveals some color in her cheeks, though it could easily be explained away by the frivolity of the feast. With a deep breath, Catelyn summons up her composure and, squaring her shoulders, strides purposefully back to the hall.  
  
She squints as her eyes readjust to the light, but she is all smiles as she reemerges into the hall. Snagging a cup of wine, Catelyn takes a sip as she studies the room from behind her cup. None seem to have taken much notice of her return, and oddly enough, she does not immediately see Lord Lannister.  
  
“Cat!” She turns quickly to see Petyr weaving among their guests, making his way to her side. “There you are! Your father and uncle were worried. You disappeared all of a sudden.”  
  
“I am afraid the room became a bit stuffy,” Catelyn explains with a kind smile. “I simply stepped out for some air.”  
  
“I can imagine it would become stuffy after dancing with that old man,” Petyr replies, and she catches the sneer in his words. She follows his eyes and sees them resting on Lord Lannister, who appears to be conversing with Lord Clement Piper, though she knows that he is watching her closely. For some reason, this sparks her ire. It is as though he is condemning her simply for conversing with the boy, and after what he has just done with her, it fuels an entirely different fire in her.  
  
Looping her hand around the young lad’s elbow, she tosses a saucy glance in Lord Lannister’s direction and, emboldened by the dark cloud that passes over his face, tells Petyr, “Then mayhap we should dance. Would you be agreeable?”  
  
“Absolutely,” Petyr replies enthusiastically.  
  
As he leads her to the dance floor, Catelyn feels a stab of guilt for using Petyr in this way, to anger Lord Lannister. She remembers his words well and, as they begin the dance, comes to see that there may be more truth in them than she had wanted to realize. But then she feels his gaze, as though boring into her as Petyr leads her around the dance floor, she soon forgets any guilt, feels it replaced by a different emotion entirely: satisfaction. Catelyn has never been one to enjoy taunting another, but in this case, she smiles, knowing she has claimed a victory, no matter how small.  
  


* * *

  
“I am sorry to be leaving,” Genna says as a servant takes the last of her things from the room, a mischievous grin on her face. “Something tells me that it would be very entertaining to stay.”  
  
“We must return, though, wife,” Emmon stutters out.  
  
“Oh, be gone, you!” Genna snaps, waving the little man away as though he were naught but a fly. “Go find Stevron or amuse yourself some other way, just be gone!”  
  
“As you wish,” the little man answers, fleeing from the room quickly.  
  
“Weakling,” Tywin mutters from where he stands gazing out the window.  
  
“Agreed,” Genna replies, rising from her seat to stand by her brother. She studies him carefully before saying, “What vexes you, brother? You have been out of sorts since the feast.” Pausing for just a moment, she narrows her eyes slightly before asking, “Did the girl not live up to your expectations?”

Tywin’s stern gaze falls upon his sister like a boulder. It is a gaze that would bring most men to their knees. But he knows Genna is accustomed to his ways and is not easily intimidated by it, so she simply holds his eyes and waits, knowing eventually he will relent. She is not long in waiting.  
  
“I would not know,” he says finally as he turns his gaze back to the scene beyond the window.  
  
“Do not be shy, Tywin,” Genna teases. “You had to have had expectations. Either she met them or she did not.” He does not reply to this, but he knows she will not let it drop, that eventually she will connect it all. “You don’t mean to say…” She trails off, waiting to be corrected. When he does not, Tywin hears her giggle giddily. “You did not bed her!” Both hands cover her mouth to hide her amusement, but he can see it in her eyes all the same. “Well,” she starts, “the two of you certainly weren’t gone for very long, but surely it could have been done quickly.”  
  
“Not if it were to be done right,” Tywin mutters evenly, though his temper is becoming piqued.  
  
“You do not wish to give it to her by halves, well, I am impressed, brother,” Genna japes. “It’s certainly no more than the daughter of a fellow high lord deserves.” His head snaps around at this, a reprimand on the tip of his tongue, but she cuts him off. “Oh, no, Tywin, you will hear this. You warned me to be careful of her the night of the feast, but now, I return your warning. You are here to broker a betrothal, not bed a girl promised to another. If you are having second thoughts about Lady Catelyn, let her alone. Do not toy with her. It could blow up in your face and you well know it.”  
  
“I will not bed her,” Tywin answers, and it is with a finality that surprises even him.  
  
“Oh?” Genna asks, taken aback. “Had a change of heart, brother, an attack of conscience? That is rather unlike you.”  
  
“She is a maid,” he says quietly, admitting it aloud for the first time since that night. It strikes him as odd to say, but he knows it to be true.  
  
“Betrothed to Brandon Stark, and a woman grown at that?” Genna says incredulously, eyes wide. “You cannot be serious.”  
  
“I am,” Tywin replies seriously, replaying that night in his mind. “He has kissed her, but he has not touched her. She was skittish as an unbroken foal.”  
  
“Mayhap it was fear of discovery,” Genna supplies, “or fear that her betrothed may someday learn of her dalliance.”  
  
“It was fear,” he answers with a curt nod, recalling her wide eyes when she had finally turned to face him, “but fear of the unknown, of something that was unknown to her. A man, in that way, is unknown to her.”  
  
Genna is quiet for many moments, and he has known his sister long enough to recognize that she is deep in thought. He does not blame her. With all the stories coming from the North, from various tourneys, about the young heir to Winterfell, he had simply assumed that Brandon Stark had also had his way with his betrothed. That was why he did not press Catelyn that night, why he did not seek to take her. It is one thing to bed a woman of experience, however little it may be. But to bed a maiden, to take what should only be spilled in her marriage bed … this, surprisingly, he will not do. Tywin supposed he had too much respect for her, to curse her marriage so completely before it could even begin. He knew that there would be nothing for them beyond this time spent at Riverrun, but he did not wish her ill for it.  
  
“This is why you have kept your distance these past days,” she finally says, her words thoughtful. “You have still watched her, true enough, but your gaze has been less heated. I thought mayhap the spark had died with the bedding, but seeing as there was no bedding … You will cease your pursuit of her, then?"

Tywin is silent for long moments, carefully weighing his sister’s question. It would be wise to cease, to focus his full attentions on arranging the betrothal and nothing else. He is a man of great control, he could easily ignore the stirrings that he feels when he sees her, or sate them with any of the servant girls that mill about. Still, he wants to sate them with her only, even if he cannot do so in the traditional sense. Lady Catelyn is proving more of a challenge than he had initially thought, but it does not dampen is ardor. No, Tywin is honest enough to admit that it only stokes it higher. And after all, a proper bedding is not the only way to relieve ones passions.  
  
“No,” Tywin answers finally with a shake of his head. “I shall simply go about it a bit differently.”  
  
Genna lets out a huff, though whether of amusement or disgust, he knows not, nor does he really care. With a sigh, she shakes her head and turns for the door. Pulling it open, she stops and turns back to him. “Good luck, Tywin. I believe you may have need of it.”


	2. Chapter 2

Catelyn couldn’t sleep. Again. Every time she closes her eyes, flashes of that night with Lord Lannister in the corridor – his hands, his lips, the two of them moving together – fill her mind. Again.  
  
It has been this way more nights than not since the feast, and it is beginning to drive her to distraction. Catelyn desperately needs sleep, but has been unable to gain more than a few hours these past nights, when exhaustion will finally derail her traitorous thoughts and claim her at long last. Kicking at the sheets, she huffs angrily. The heat certainly isn’t helping things. Even with her hair braided and in her lightest night shift and her windows thrown open wide, it is still almost unbearably hot.  
  
A swim would be lovely, she thinks, knowing that the river would cool her, that the exercise of her muscles would help her to find exhaustion quicker. Of course, slipping out of the castle this late into the night would be frowned upon, but only if she were caught, a highly unlikely scenario, as she knows the passages of this castle better than almost anyone. With firm resolve, Catelyn climbs from the bed, throwing on her dressing gown, and creeps out into the darkened hallway.  
  
It really should not be this easy, she thinks, not having to stop once, even upon reaching the yard. She would have assumed there would be guards, or mayhap more guards, out than this. But, at the moment, she is not complaining as she slips into the godswood, the cool grass feeling wonderful under her bare feet. The moonlight casts long, deep shadows among the redwoods, but Catelyn would know her way blindfolded, and she trots assuredly along through the trees.  
  
The river is flowing along at a languid pace, and just the sight of it is enough to calm her. Shrugging out of her dressing gown, she tosses it over a low-hanging limb and edges her way into the water. She is only ankle deep, however, when a roguish impulse takes hold. Catelyn has not swam naked in years, not since she and Lysa were small, around the time Petyr had arrived and septa had caught them, scolding them both profusely as she drug them before her father. Lord Hoster had chuckled at his two little trout girls standing before him dripping, but all the same, had told them that they could not do that, as it was not how little ladies behaved. From that day until this, she has never once gone into the river without something on. But tonight, she is feeling rebellious. Scampering back up the bank, Catelyn quickly unbraids her hair and slips out of her shift, hanging it beside her dressing gown before running back for the river, this time diving into the water.

Long, strong legs propel her through the water, and she only surfaces when her lungs begin to burn. Leaning back, Catelyn floats for a moment, kicking lazily as she levels out her breathing. The water whooshes in her ears, sloshes gently in the reeds by the shore, and she finds comfort in this. The current is not all that fast, and she needs only stroke or kick intermittently to maintain her position. Occasionally she rolls over, languid strokes pulling her up the river before she shifts again, sometimes onto her back to float, sometimes slipping back beneath the surface to swim downstream a bit, repeating this series of events over and over many times. Catelyn feels a nice ache beginning in her muscles, knows that she will sleep well upon her return to the castle, and she stretches long in the water, thinking about how nice her bed will feel.  
  
It is as she is floating, kicking gently ever so often, that her mind begins to wonder. At first, it is only about the river, the sounds of the night, the scents of the godswood. They are the same sounds and scents that drift through her window at night, through the windows of the castle, through the windows in the corridors, the corridors off the Great Hall, the same corridor where she and Lord Lannister … Catelyn runs a hand across her lower belly at the prickling heat that is forming there. The thoughts of that night flood her again, only now, in the river and not her bed, with the start of a swimming-induced ache in her limbs, she does not chase them away. She lets them wash over her, remembering the burn of his beard on her neck, the nip of teeth on her skin, the way his hand was large enough to span the breadth of her back. Without thought, her thighs squeeze together, and vaguely she registers the dull throb between them. A gentle breeze blows up the river and Catelyn cannot hold back the moan that escapes her lips as it caresses across her chest, her breasts, and she feels her nipples stiffen. Quickly drawing her knees toward her chest, she sinks below the surface, hoping to snap herself out of … wherever it was her mind had just wandered. Swimming back toward the bank, Catelyn breaks the surface and sweeps her hair out of her face. With a deep breath, she begins wringing out her hair, walking back toward the tree where her shift and dressing gown hang.  
  
Or rather, where they should be hanging.  
  
Catelyn draws up short as she realizes that her clothes are no longer there. Frozen in place, her heart is now pounding frantically in her chest as she runs through the possible ways for her clothing to have disappeared except for the one that is most obvious.  
  
“An aroused woman is truly a beautiful sight to behold.”  
  
Catelyn yelps as she dashes behind the tree, hoping to hide herself as much as possible from the man whose voice has just sounded from behind her. She is seething by the time she presses herself against the tree, teeth grinding at the gall of this man. “What, my lord,” she forces out through clenched teeth, “do you think you are doing?”  
  
“Taking a late night stroll, to clear my head,” Lord Lannister replies evenly, though she is certain she can hear the smugness in his voice. “I have done so several time since arriving, though this is the first night I have found anyone else about. I must say, I am rather pleased to find you.”  
  
“You haven’t found me, my lord, but my clothes!” she snaps, poking her head around the side of the tree. She finds him standing not too far from where she had stopped upon emerging from the river, her clothes laid casually over his arm, and she immediately feels her face color. Catelyn knows Lord Lannister likely saw all of her if he but used his eyes, and the thought both terrifies and excites her. “I would like them back.”  
  
“Then why did you abandon them so, my lady?” Lord Lannister asks, and her anger surges when she sees the side of his mouth twitch.  
  
“I believe you know why, my lord,” she mutters angrily, “and had I known that another living soul might venture out, rest assured I would not have done so. Now, would you please return to me my things?”  
  
“Of course,” he replies with a nod, and Catelyn knows he has agreed far too easily. It is not until he begins strolling toward her that she realizes his intent.

“No!” she cries, jumping back behind the tree, praying that he will heed her plea. “Just, stay where you are!”  
  
“As you wish,” he replies steadily, even as she thinks there is just a touch of mirth – not something usually associated with him – in his words, and she is grateful to no longer hear his footsteps. “But I am troubled as to how you believe your clothes will be returned if you will not allow my approach.”  
  
“Oh, I am sure you are just worried sick,” Catelyn hisses indignantly, peering cautiously around the tree to ascertain his location. He is closer, just a few feet on the other side of the trunk, but thankfully the tree still acts as a large enough shield to hide her from his eyes. “The branch, by your head,” she tells him, nodding toward it. “Lay them over the branch and walk back toward the river. And make sure you turn around so that you cannot see me!”  
  
“If that is what you prefer,” Tywin all but purrs, and she knows that he is planning something.  
  
Instinctively, Catelyn pulls back behind the tree, listening. She hears the sound of fabric rustling a branch, and then hears his retreating footsteps. Surely it cannot be this easy, she thinks. When his footsteps stop, she waits a beat, then calls, “Are you facing away?”  
  
“I am many things, my lady, but you may be assured, I am a man of my word,” Lord Lannister calls, and it is all she can do not to roll her eyes or fire off some sarcastic quip.  
  
Building up her courage, Catelyn peeks tentatively around the tree, seeing that he is indeed standing by the river, his back to her, and she darts out, snatching the garment off the tree limb. However, it is only after she reaches it that she realizes it is in fact only one garment, not two. He had left her the dressing gown only. “Where is my shift?”  
  
“I have it here,” he calls back, and she sees him hold it up. “Shall I bring it to you?”  
  
“No!” she cries, shoving her arms into the gown and cinching it tightly around her waist, wishing that she could cinch it about her neck as well. “Now,” she calls, “you may bring me my shift.”  
  
“Gladly,” he says, turning and striding purposefully to her. She snatches it from his grasp before he can offer it, but instead of angering him, it only seems to amuse him. “Really, Lady Catelyn, you need not be in such a hurry to cover yourself. I spoke truly before. Arousal in a woman is quite a sight.”  
  
“I believe you mistake anger for arousal,” she snaps, wadding the shift up in her arms before crossing them, pressing the garment against her chest.  
  
“Anger, you say?” he begins slowly, an eyebrow arching in disbelief.  
  
“Increasing by the second, my lord,” Catelyn fires off, defiant.  
  
“Interesting,” Lord Lannister begins, and before she realizes what he is doing, he is in her space, flooding her senses with the aura and power that are so undeniably him. He is crowding her, trying to intimidate her, but Catelyn refuses to let him. “I have borne witness to anger, my lady, many times. But tell me,” he starts, skimming the backs of his fingers down her cheek to her neck to her arm to allow them to brush ever so lightly across the side of her breast, “does anger, cause this?”  
  
She clutches her balled up shift tighter in response, for though she wears a dressing gown, his touch burns, and she does not trust her voice to give answer even as she feels her nipples tighten further.  
  
“Does anger incite the burn that flares in your belly?” he asks, pitching his voice low as he lets his fingers dance across her lower abdomen, stepping even closer in the process. And teasing his fingers across her hip and down her outer thigh, he leans into her, brushing his lips against her ear as he whispers, “Does it explain the tremble in your thighs, that ache you cannot soothe alone?” It is as his words die in her ear that she feels his fingers slip across her leg, finding the part in her gown and running up the inside of her thigh, skin on skin.

Catelyn jumps as if truly burned, but before she can react further, he catches her about the waist and pulls her to him, slanting his lips across hers in a bruising kiss that steals the air from her lungs. The shift, now forgotten, falls to the ground beside them as she wraps both arms around his shoulders. She gives as good as she gets, and there is something liberating about this, something wonderful about acting so disgracefully.  
  
But just as this thought crosses her mind, Catelyn is pushing him away, trying to get him to release her, though his arms hold firm. She knows she should not be doing this, knows that it is wrong, that she dishonors her family and her betrothed in her actions. She fights him, but he will not let her go, and as though he sees the struggle in her face, Lord Lannister brings a palm to her cheek, stilling her as he forces her to look at him. “He dishonors you, far more than just trading kisses in a godswood. He has taken the maidenhead of at least a dozen young women, and will continue to do so after he takes you to wife.”  
  
“A man may quell his desires where he wishes, as you seem to know, my lord,” Catelyn starts, the last portion dripping with venom. She has to wound him, as much as she presumes he knew his words did her.  
  
Lord Lannister’s only response is a sneer, and then he is on her again, kissing her with no restraint whatsoever, and it stirs Catelyn to a frenzy, has her wrapping one arm around his neck even as her other fist pounds at his chest.  
  
“Family, duty, and honor, those are your words,” he hisses against the skin of her cheek, “but whose honor is protected when he parts the legs of any woman willing, trueborn or base, when he will sire bastard upon bastard on your chambermaids?” She feels his hand slip inside the gap in her robe and curl around her bare thigh, and Catelyn does not fight him as he pulls her leg up around his hip and she falls against him. Nipping at her collarbone, he asks, “Whose duty is done when he beds woman,” and he nips her pulse point, “after woman,” and he nips her bottom lip, “after woman?”  
  
Catelyn moans, smoothing her hands against his bearded cheeks even as she shakes her head. “I cannot,” she pants, tearing her mouth from his. She does not push at him now, does not try to disentangle herself from him though she says, “You are neither my husband nor–”  
  
“Yes, I am not your husband nor you thrice-damned betrothed!” he roars, and Catelyn momentarily believes that his house sigil is well applied. She feels a hand slide up her back, anchoring itself in her hair as he continues, quieter now, saying, “And I will leave you a maid, my lady, of this you have my word, though it is only for your sake, not his.” Pressing a gentle kiss against her lips, one she finds completely at odds with his display of temper only moments earlier, he whispers, “But I can teach you, things to take to your marriage bed, to make him think twice about spurning you, and if he is foolish enough to do so anyway, to ensure that at least you will take what you wish from his visits to you.” Pausing for the briefest of moments, his lips brush hers again, not in a kiss, just in simple contact.  
  
Catelyn is equally consumed by desire and doubt. The choice is hers. For better or ill, he is leaving it to her. She is betrothed to another, should remain faithful to him, even if he does not show her the same respect. But he does not want her, does not elicit this feeling from her, does not pursue her because he chooses to, only because she was chosen for him. There is something overpoweringly alluring about a man who wants her simply for who she is, not the alliance she can bring or the children she can birth. He wants none of that, knows that he recognizes such cannot be had through her, and yet he has chased her, has caught her, holds her tightly, strokes her, kisses her all the same. Catelyn has ever been the levelheaded child, has had no choice in the matter. Brash, reckless behavior is more Brandon’s purview. But, what’s sauce for the goose …

Without a second thought, Catelyn lunges forward, this time the aggressor as she slips her own tongue between his lips and she feels more than hears his grunt of approval. And then she feels as though she his falling, being lowered and then lain upon the grass, feels him move over her, feels her robe being parted, and, oddly enough, feels no fear. Only anticipation. For Catelyn has ever been an apt pupil, has been praised as such by her septa and Maester Vyman. And tonight, she is eager to learn.  
  


* * *

  
The hall is livelier than usual as they break their fasts. Lady Lysa and her brother are deep in conversation, and he catches snippets of something about a ride later in the day, after his lessons have concluded. Jaime is invited, and when his golden son looks to wave off the offer, he catches his father’s gaze and quickly reconsiders. Satisfied, Tywin returns to his meal and his conversation with Lord Hoster, though the true focus of his attention sits past the Lord Paramount and is currently engaged in conversation with her uncle.  
  
The sight of her hair, partially unbound despite the heat, is enough to almost make him smile. He knows the cut of her gowns, has studied them in detail in the near fortnight since their meeting in the godswood, and he knows the mark he left on the back of her neck last night just peeks above the collar, enough to warrant her hair left long today. He knows she tends her own hair, has no worry that a maid will see it, or any of the various other marks that he has left on her skin, in particular those around her thighs and hips. It could not be helped, really. She thrashes more than he would expect from a novice and he could not explain away a busted lip with ease, but he finds her eagerness quite enjoyable. It amused him, the first time she saw such a blemish on her body, the reddish-purple mark he’d left on her breast that night in the godswood. She had seen it as she was dressing, had said that her fair complexion lent itself to bruising easily while she had blushed deliciously, and he hadn’t been able to help tugging her back to the ground and giving her a true reason to blush.  
  
“Oh, Uncle!” Catelyn laughs, drawing his attention back to the present. He cannot help but glance at her and she catches the gaze, her smile growing fractionally as a result.  
  
Tywin cannot help but be impressed with her aptitude with secrecy. He had considered, when pondering his course of action regarding her, that the only real liability in his plan would be her ability to remain discrete. He had anticipated that the ever-obedient eldest daughter of Riverrun would find it difficult to live day to day with their liaisons, would battle her conscience and dedication to duty, but such had not been the case. Catelyn has never once given any indication that she feels the least bit regretful for what they have done. It seems that, once decided, she is not one to look back.  
  
“I shall miss her when she weds,” Hoster says quietly, and Tywin can see the man watching his oldest daughter with a sentimental smile. “I shall miss them both, of course,” he quickly adds, “but my Lysa will be closer. Catelyn will be all the way in Winterfell. It is a good match, certainly, but I cannot help but wonder how we will survive without her.”  
  
“You will adjust,” Tywin tells him, trying to inject enough sympathy into the words to make them believable. Mawkishness has never been a part of his emotional repertoire, but he has seen its presentation enough time to know how it appears. “She will wed to best befit her house, and will do you honor as befits the role of a daughter, the role of any daughter.”  
  
The words are delivered with aplomb, but they taste of ash on his tongue. Any mention of her betrothal has become increasingly grating to him, and while he has only recently acknowledged it, Tywin is unwilling to give name to the thoughts that make him grind his teeth.  
  
“My lord.”  
  
Maester Vyman, like all good maesters, has slipped up the dais drawing little notice. His words draw Lord Hoster’s attention, and the Lord of Riverrun raises a hand expectantly for the letter the man in grey carries.  
  
“Forgive me, my lord,” Vyman says with a small bow, “but the letter is addressed to Lord Lannister.”

Tywin’s brow furrows as he studies the letter, seeing the Targaryen dragon stamped in blood red wax. Suspicion flares. King Aerys knows where he is and why, and Tywin was sure to leave all pressing issues either resolved or in a state that would not require attention until he could return. So what could Aerys want?  
  
“Trouble, my lord?” Hoster asks.  
  
“I know not,” Tywin says, accepting the maester’s proffered knife to slice through the wax. He only skims a few lines in the missive before he grows incensed. He rereads the words again, not believing what he is seeing. But it is there, and it makes his blood boil. Without a word, Tywin is on his feet, his chair flying backward as a result. All eyes are now upon him, but he cares not. He only sees the one person, and he is on the lad before either of them realizes it.  
  
Seizing his son by the arm, he hauls the boy from his chair with a strength that Jaime clearly thought his father no longer possessed. Were he not so enraged, he might take some small victory from that. The young knight begins to protest, but his words turn to yelps as his arm is wrenched behind his back.  
  
“Move,” Tywin growls lowly, shoving the boy ahead of him toward the door.  
  
“My lord!” Hoster calls, and Tywin stops to see that both he and Ser Brynden are on their feet, and the children look on concerned. His eyes fall to hers, sees the questions swimming there, and a small stab of guilt pierces his rage. Catelyn will not understand, he knows this, but it is beyond him at this point.  
  
“My lord, I require an audience with my son,” Tywin spits out, sneering through the last as though the very words are poison to him. Tossing the letter back on the table, he says, “And I shall need an audience with you as well, should any of this prove true.”  
  
And with that, Tywin sweeps from the hall, dragging his son with him.  
  
“What have you done, boy?” he seethes as he finds an empty antechamber and thrusts his son into it.  
  
“What are you talking about?” Jaime balks, backing away, and Tywin is pleased to see that his son, so cocky in his new knighthood, has the good sense to at least fear his father.  
  
“The Kingsguard?” Tywin rages, unable to hold back. “We are here to negotiate your betrothal to Lysa Tully, and I receive word that it is your desire to don the white cloak? What madness is this?”  
  
“Did he say I could join?” Jaime asks eagerly, excitement dancing in his eyes, and Tywin lets his hand fly.  
  
“You knew?” he roars, unable to fathom it. His son, his golden heir, went behind his back to join the Kingsguard. For all his careful preparation, he never thought that it would be Jaime who would dash all of his best laid plans. “Can you even begin to understand what you have done? Lord Hoster has agreed to wed his daughter to you. You are to be Lord of the Rock!”  
  
“And I told you I do not want it!” Jaime says, taking a step closer to his father in challenge, even as he still holds a hand across his cheek. “I want to fight! I want to be a knight!”  
  
“Do you not understand the disgrace you have brought upon your house, upon our hosts?” Tywin asks in complete disbelief. “I have spent over a moon’s turn in discussion with another high lord for the hand of his daughter, and you go behind my back to ensure that it can never occur. You will be in the Kingsguard, Jaime! There will be no marriage, no children. You can never inherit Casterly Rock! Is that what you want?”  
  
“Why do you complain?” Jaime asks. “It is not as though you lack in sons. Give it to Tyrion.”  
  
Tywin moves to strike his son again, but the lad ducks out of his reach quickly. He will not pursue the boy, will not stoop to that level, but his voice is icy cold as he levels his glare on his son and says, “The abomination that murdered your mother will never sit the Rock.” Turning on his heel, unable to be in the same room as his son a moment longer, he flings open the door, pausing in the doorway. “Pray, boy,” he starts without turning to face the lad, “that I can stop this, that I can undo your folly. Return to your quarters and gather your things. I must explain this debacle to Lord Hoster, hope neither the man nor his brother challenges you over this slight to their house. And then, we will leave.”

With the slam of the door, Tywin stalks off in the direction of the lord’s solar. The wheels of his mind are spinning rapidly as he attempts to discern the best way to assuage the honor of a house who values it as one of the tenets their very lives are built upon. He wants to fix this, wants to say that he will be able to change the king’s mind, but he doubts it. Aerys has grown more unstable in recent years, more paranoid of his Hand. Without realizing it, his foolish son has played right into the madman’s long-nailed clutches. Cersei had a role in this, he knows it without a shadow of a doubt. His beautiful daughter had begged, pleaded, screamed for her brother’s return when he was sent away to squire. Her selfishness and Jaime’s stupidity will cost him his heir. That is the only reason Aerys would allow a knight so young into his guard, to see his Hand stripped of his beloved heir.  
  
It is as he approaches the spiral staircase that will lead him to the two brothers who will be just as irate as he that Tywin allows his mind to drift briefly to another fiery haired Tully and the conversation that he will surely have with her. His ascent never falters, but it feels as though his steps become heavier as he considers her reactions. Tywin Lannister would never say that he dreaded facing any man, living or dead. But the thought of Catelyn’s response, of looking her in the eye after this, stirs an uncomfortable feeling for which he is, for the first time in many years, woefully unprepared to handle.


	3. Chapter 3

She storms into his chambers without warning or preamble. She has ventured here more than once as of late, but then she had moved stealthily in the darkness, her goals far different than the ones she has now. Throwing open the door with great force, it ricochets off the wall soundly, and Catelyn is inwardly pleased when the three occupants of the room face her immediately, though she only truly sees him.  
  
For long moments, no one moves, though the two servants look back and forth between their lady and Lord Tywin. He holds her gaze, does not look away she assumes to avoid looking weak, but she can see his mind racing, assessing how best to handle her. “Leave us,” he commands at last, and the servants do not have to be told twice, scurrying past her with quick bows and muttered courtesies. For a few moments, he does nothing, but as the sounds of the servants’ retreating footfalls die away, he approaches her, walks past her, and she hears him close the door, though she does not turn to watch. “As bright as I know you to be, that was exceedingly foolish,” he says with a quiet growl, and those words are the last straw.  
  
The crack of flesh against flesh echoes through the room, and she takes a small victory in the way his head recoils from the slap, even as her palms stings like a thousand nettles.  
  
“What was Lysa’s crime?” Catelyn demands, breathing heavily as the anger courses through her. “What did she do? Tell me, what failing was so horrid that she deserves this humiliation?”  
  
“There was none,” Tywin answers evenly, and were it not for the tensing of his jaw, she might have thought him discussing the weather.  
  
“Then what failing did you find with this house?” she questions further. “What slight did we do you or your son in the weeks you have resided here as a guest? What insult or offense has been perpetrated that you would allow this, that you or your son would now wish to ally your house with us, but to embarrass us in this manner?”  
  
“There has been nothing,” he replies steadily, though there is something else, something in his inflection, but in her anger, she only hears the words, not what she is meant to infer. And the words make her rage.  
  
“Then why?!” Catelyn screams. “Why do this?! Why did you come her and raise my sister’s hopes to no fruition?! Do you think this funny?! You are the great Lord Tywin Lannister, the most powerful man in all the seven kingdoms, do you think yourself above us, that you can toy with us at your pleasure?!”  
  
“I had no hand in this,” he tells her, and she scoffs.  
  
“You had no hand in this?” she repeats incredulously. “You control everything, even the king! Are we expected to believe you knew nothing of this? Do you expect me to believe such?!”

“I do not control the king,” he asserts, finally beginning to lose some of his control, “though the gods know I wish I did, especially now. I came here, with my son, with the intention of securing his betrothal. I came here to make an ally of your house, not insult it. That, my lady, was entirely my son’s doing. My foolish, short-sighted son and his selfish sister.”  
  
“It is easy to lay blame at the feet of children, my lord,” Catelyn scoffs. “I no more believe the words from your mouth than I did when they came from my father. That your son went behind your back, that your daughter worked to secure her brother’s position whilst you were here, in good faith brokering a betrothal. Do you take us for common fools?”  
  
“I took you for having more sense than this,” Tywin fires back, advancing on her.  
  
“Oh, you took me, alright,” Catelyn hisses venomously, and before she can fight him off, he has seized her by the shoulders.  
  
“Think, girl!” he growls, his face now scant inches from hers. “What have I to gain by Jaime donning the white cloak? What purpose does this serve me, when my only heir is snatched from me and placed forever in the clutches of Aerys, and Rhaegar after him, then Aegon, then whoever will follow him because the position is life long?! Why would I choose to slit my own throat, to let him take from me the very future of my house?!”  
  
“Why indeed!” Catelyn yells, causing him to withdraw slightly, though not to release her. “Do you think I know nothing?! You claim Jaime will forever be in servitude to the crown, but I know well the summons that have come from Dragonstone. I know what is to be discussed at Harrenhall. That is why my father will not attend. You are the master of the game, my lord, this I have heard for years, and now, I bear witness to it. You play the game now, have used us as your diversion, have allowed the king this small victory, all the while ensuring Jaime plays his part. And what, at the prince’s signal the knight-turned-pawn will rise up against the king and end the madness? Such would be truly noble, to have served the new king so long and faithfully,” she mocks facetiously, “and what better way to repay such service, than by releasing him from his oaths, allowing him to return to the Rock, to you, and reclaim his rightful place as your heir. Masterfully done, my lord, especially when you care nothing for those who must suffer for the sake of your ambition.”  
  
Lord Tywin is speechless, and she takes this as vindication. It must show on her face, however, for she sees him start to shake his head, slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. “Would that your theories were true, my lady, then it would allow some hope of setting all this to rights in future.”  
  
“I do not believe you,” Catelyn tells him, her face unsympathetic. Shaking off his grip on her shoulders, she makes for the door and says, “You are a gamesman, you lie as easily as you breathe.”  
  
“I have lied many times in my life, to many people in whom I hold much less regard,” Tywin starts, catching her elbow in his firm grip as she passes. Catelyn cannot help but meet his gaze, will not be seen as weak now, not when she has the upper hand, even as she feels his grip increasing in strength. “But I have never once lied to you. Believe what you will, Catelyn, but that is the truth. No offense was ever intended toward your house.”  
  
“Intended or not, it is felt all the same,” she replies icily, jerking her arm from his grip. “If you will excuse me, I have a sister to console.” Yanking open the chamber door, she tells him, “I curse the day you rode into Riverrun, and will gladly cheer your departure.”  
  
The slamming of the door drowns out any response he may have made.  
  


* * *

  
The putrid, wretched mass that is King’s Landing is the perfect descriptor of his mood. The cries and moans of the city are a counterpoint to the screams that echo through the Hand’s quarters, though he is ignoring them, has been doing so for the last half hour.

“You cannot do this!” Cersei shrieks, and though he stands with his back to her, looking out over the city, he knows that there are tears staining her face, though whether from sadness or anger, he cannot say, though he assumes a bit of both. “You are Hand, you cannot simply give that up. You must remain here. We must remain here, with Jaime! King’s Landing is our home, you cannot do this!”  
  
“I believe you’ll find that I have,” Tywin says at last, slowly and with calculated measure, finally dignifying his daughter’s unbecoming display with a response. “And you would do well to remember that you are a Lion of the Rock, not the Red Keep. This is the realm of the dragon.”  
  
“And you were to wed me to one!” Cersei screeches.  
  
“What is passed cannot be changed,” Tywin replies, maintaining a calm that he does not feel. He can appreciate his daughter’s spirit, her fight, but cannot accept it in the guise of a woman. A woman may have such traits, may even use them, but cannot not as Cersei tries, not in the same manner as a man. The true injustice of it is that those same traits would serve her twin wonderfully if he would but seize them, and then mayhap they would not be in this situation. But Jaime has ever been happy to follow, to let Cersei lead him, from the womb and then through life. He had hoped that Jaime’s fostering away from his sister would have broken him of that habit, but unfortunately, such was not the case.  
  
“But,” she starts, as though searching for any argument to latch onto, “we cannot leave Jaime! Jaime is family, we look after our own!”  
  
“Jaime has chosen his path,” Tywin growls, wheeling about to face his daughter. There are indeed tracks of tears on her face, but there is absolute malice in her green eyes, the mirror of his. “And you have helped him to it, haven’t you, girl?! You do not see, do you? Jaime may as well no longer be family, not after the ceremony. He will swear, wholly and unconditionally, to do the king’s bidding. If Aerys orders him to take your head, he will do so, or die himself as an oathbreaker. That,” he snarls, fixing his daughter with a piercing stare, “is what you have chosen for your brother.”  
  
“All the more reason not to leave!” she cries. “You must remain Hand! You can temper the king, you can help Jaime.”  
  
“I did all I could to help the boy by trying to convince Aerys to release him, to undo your machinations, but the course is set,” Tywin says slowly, ensuring that Cersei hangs on every word. “You have brought this upon your brother, you have brought this upon our house, and you, along with the rest of us, will live with the consequences. You, daughter, will reap what you have sown, and mayhap you will learn, finally, to think before you act. Mayhap you will learn that the behavior and arrogance of a child,” he starts, sneering the last word, knowing it will cut her with vicious efficiency, “have no place in the games of men.”  
  
Tywin watches as the rage dances in her eyes, but it does so in silence, and for that, he is pleased. Cersei has always been short-tempered, a trait not uncommon in Lannisters, but has never attempted to learn to control it, much to his chagrin.  
  
“You will return to your rooms,” he says lowly, placing both hands flat on the table before her, watching her closely, “and you will make ready. In one week’s time, we will attend the ceremony that you helped bring about, and you will watch as your brother is taken from his family by your doing. And then we will leave King’s Landing, and I will hear no more said on the matter.” When Cersei does nothing more than stare at him spitefully, he growls out, “Go.”

When she has swept angrily from the room in a flurry of red fabric and golden curls, Tywin makes his way to his desk. He stares into the empty grate, his back straight even as he leans to the side, his chin in his hand. His resignation is written, his reasons hollow and all are aware of it. Court is abuzz with word of the king’s decision to raise a child, Lord Tywin’s golden son and heir no less, to the Kingsguard. They titter in hushed whispers and sideways glances, though always behind his back. No, they still need him – his money, his influence, his power – too much to show actual courage and speak openly. He will be glad to be rid of this place, that he knows, though the thought of living with Cersei and that repugnant monstrosity to whom he must regrettably give his name in a much smaller environment with far fewer distractions is not something he relishes. The nurse will thankfully see to Tyrion, but Cersei is a beast of an entirely different nature, one with whom he has lost all but a marginal amount of patience.  
  
The ramifications of Jaime’s choice weigh heavily upon him. He knows, as does the court and the realm, that with Jaime joining the Kingsguard, he loses a great deal, though it is more than any of the cretins that inhabit this shithole can even begin to comprehend. Yes, Tywin loses his heir, and that alone galls him, to know that all and sundry expect that his dwarf son will inherit his lands. It is even more of a disgrace to know that neither of his twins seems to realize the shame this will bring upon them all. Jaime, he knows, would not mind to see the disgusting child inherit Casterly Rock, and Cersei, who cannot accept the role her birth assigns to her, likely believes that she will inherit over Tyrion. Neither pay any notice to the gossips, the whispers, the damned laughter that is associated with House Lannister once again. For nearly two decades, he has worked tirelessly to erase the mockery that his house had endured under his father’s rule, to build a bastion of power and respect out of the Rock. And in one fell swoop, his twins could destroy it all.  
  
The whole kingdom sees this, to varying degrees of course, but none are likely to see the potential political fallout that will be endured from House Tully. Tywin has long been able to bribe – and when that fails, intimidate or extort – those from whom he needs something for most of his adult life. But the Tullys are different. The castle at Riverrun is what many would call modest, but they are being kind. It is most certainly small, but the Tullys are content. They have wealth enough and seek no more, have the loyalty of their bannermen with little exception, and even those who are not altogether loyal will not turn on their liege, no matter how much he were to offer, for the Tullys have ever been a firm but fair lot. And though the Westerlands are the wealthiest of all the kingdoms, having a belligerent neighbor in the Riverlands could prove a great deal of trouble in the long run, particularly when Hoster Tully is well liked by most all in the kingdom, whereas he knows he commands their respect through fear. Of the two methods, Tywin knows he prefers his own, but recognizes how easily honorable Lord Tully could incite bad feelings among other nobles, which would make things difficult.  
  
Damn, but he wanted that betrothal. Lysa Tully may not have been all one would have hoped, but the marriage would have been a good one, the children would have made fine little lions with the proper guidance. And the alliance with Hoster Tully would have gained him, if not allies outright, at least a favorable connection to a larger host of lords than his name, and reputation, alone would allow. Connections, life is built upon connections, both to those who are free of any taint and those who are riddled with it. He has done business in the mud, the filth. It is what he deals with daily at court, at the hearing of grievances, liaising with the dregs of society. Rarely does a man of honor actually exist and present himself, let alone wish to join his house to Tywin’s. The opportunity was golden, but now, like his golden son, it is lost.

Jaime is indeed lost to him, this he knows. Tywin is too proud to beg, too proud to let Aerys reduce him to such a state. He knows the king is rejoicing in what he has done, in taking Tywin’s pride and joy. It is why he is resigning, and all know it, including the king. He wants to put distance between himself and King’s Landing, the sooner the better, but will not give the mad king the satisfaction of thinking he has bested the lion. No, he will stay and watch his son take the white cloak, and he will stand tall as though proud, and then, only then, will he return to the Rock.  
But how to fix this! There is no hope of changing the king’s mind, no hope of keeping his heir. The Tullys, however, are another matter. Lord Hoster had balked at the idea of betrothing his daughter to Tyrion, and honestly, Tywin cannot blame the man. But there must be something he can do to mollify this, something to get him back in control, back to maneuvering the pieces instead of being the one maneuvered. If only Catelyn’s theories were true, that he had somehow made an alliance with the prince against the king, but sadly, such is not the case. He is reminded again how that quick mind will be wasted on the North, on Brandon Stark, will languish in the cold snows of Winterfell, utterly unused. Long do these thoughts dance through his mind, coupled with flashes of red and ivory, of whispers and breathy moans. And with a sudden burst of clarity, he sees it, the solution to it all.  
  
The letter is written quickly, his mind now focused on the task at hand. There is no hesitation, no pause, no stopping and starting over because something has been misworded. He knows what he means to say and it transfers flawlessly onto the parchment. It is a gambit, one that, if in vain, will likely bring offense to more than one noble house. But if successful, if he can bring this off, Tywin will once more be on top of things, the puppeteer instead of the puppet. The payoff outweighs the risk, and as he stamps his seal across the parchment, he feels the rush of the game yet again. He may be down, but Tywin Lannister is by no means beaten.  
  


* * *

  
The past two moon have been difficult, to say the least. Lysa has been all but inconsolable, locking herself away in her rooms in both sadness and embarrassment. Edmure has been almost uncontrollable, angered at the slight done to his sister and house, even if he truly doesn’t understand all that has passed. The only thing he does know is that Lysa cries over a Lannister, that she and Father and Uncle are all angry at the Lannisters, so he needs to be angry, too. The boy is making claims of avenging his sister, of challenging the knight to reclaim her honor, and Catelyn cannot help but be proud of him, even if he is impossibly young and short tempered.

Oddly enough, while she has been focusing on Lysa, her uncle and father have seemed to be more focused on her. At first she paid it little mind, had simply assumed that they were worried she would overextend herself in regards to her sister. But then they had received word that Lord Tywin had resigned as Hand of the King. That, in and of itself, did not concern her. Let the man resign and go wallow in his own resentment in Casterly Rock. After what had been done to Lysa, she had little sympathy for him. But then raven had come, the one bearing the direwolf seal. She had seen it handed to her father while she was making arrangements for the midday meal to be delivered to Lysa’s chambers for the two of them, and though Catelyn knew it came from Winterfell, had seen the seal of dark grey wax and the way her father’s eyes had found her without thought, but she had yet to know its contents. Lord Hoster had not joined them for their evening meal that day, nor had he sent for her at any time during the day, and this had left Catelyn feeling uneasy. Since the announcement of her betrothal, her father had always been open with her about what arrangements were being made. However, with this, he had done nothing. Her suspicions were only further aroused when she tried to question her uncle and he proved evasive, saying only that she need not worry and should focus on Lysa. She had wanted to scream then, to act wholly out of character and make demands above her place, but she held it in. She had done enough in the time that the Lannisters were there that had been out of character. More would have been too much.  
  
Catelyn sits in Lysa’s window, stitching a tear in a pair of Edmure’s breeches. It is a small thing, but they are a pair of his formal breeches, and he had been terrified to take it to one of his attendants of their father’s reprisal for being so rough on his nice things. As such, Catelyn had agreed to mend it, as she often did with his things.  
  
“So who will I marry now?” Lysa asks as she sits below Catelyn, her back to the wall.  
  
Catelyn sighs. It is a question she has asked many times, and unfortunately, her sister’s answer does not change. “Whomever Father deems fit for you to wed.”  
  
“But who?” Lysa asks, not letting the subject drop. “There are so few young lords. You are betrothed to Brandon Stark, the heir to Storm’s End is betrothed to Brandon’s sister. There is no one left.”  
  
“Father will find you someone, sweetling,” Catelyn answers, running her fingers through her sister’s hair comfortingly. “Dorne is could be an option, the prince’s brother is yet unmarried. And there are two other son’s in the Stormlands, as well as two more in Winterfell. What would you say to following me North, hmm?”  
Lysa is quiet for any moments, and Catelyn believes that mayhap she is content with that reply. She has returned to her stitching, thinking Lysa satisfied, and thus almost misses her sister’s whisper. “Do you think Father would allow me to wed Petyr?”  
  
Catelyn is so surprised by the question that she drops a stitch, stabbing her finger and forcing her to bite back a curse. “Where did this come from?” she asks, alarmed. She knows the answer to her sister’s question, but she does not want to give it just yet, not until she knows Lysa’s motivations.  
  
“He’s terribly clever, Cat,” Lysa says, turning to peer up at her sister. “And he’s charming and handsome. He’ll be lord of his own house, you know, back in the Vale. I could be happy in the Vale, I think.”  
  
“Oh, Lysa,” Catelyn sighs, unsure of what to say to the girl. She knows what must be said, but does not wish to anger her sister or insult Petyr in the process. “Lysa, you know it cannot be. He is of a lower house, much too low for Father to ever consent. You must either wed the son of a high lord or one of father’s bannermen. It can be no other way.”  
  
“He will have his own lordship in the Fingers, though,” Lysa retorts, “and he is a gentleman. Father has raised him as such. He has grown up with us, Cat. What makes him any different?”

“You know the answer to that, sweet sister,” Catelyn says gently. Setting aside her mending, she slides from her window seat to sit beside her sister, wrapping an arm around the girl’s shoulder and tugging her close. Unbidden, Lord Tywin’s words come back to her, and she grimaces. “Father took him on as a favor to a friend, Lysa, but that does not elevate his position.” Smoothing back her sister’s hair, she adds, “Petyr seems a good choice because he is convenient. He is here, now, and you are comfortable with him. But Father will find you someone, I know it. Do not despair, Lysa.”  
  
“The words come easy when you are betrothed, to a handsome high lord, no less,” Lysa tells her, and Catelyn would have to be deaf not to hear the bitterness in her voice.  
  
“Oh, yes, five years betrothed to handsome man with no wedding in sight,” Catelyn answers, and though she tries to remain calm, some of her own bitterness seeps into the words. “Betrothed to a high lord who seems to want to marriage, only to go from bed to bed. Am I really so much more fortunate, Lysa? Really?”  
  
To this, Lysa is silent. Catelyn understands. Never before has she spoken of her insecurities in her betrothal, only of her anticipation of doing her duty. For the first time, she is showing her sister what she feels, that even though she will fulfill her duty, as honor dictates, she does not do so without doubt.  
  
“Life is harder for a woman, isn’t it?” Lysa asks finally. Any lingering resentment has vanished, replaced by commiseration.  
  
“Life is hard for both sexes, sweet sister,” Catelyn answers after several moments of contemplation. “A man faces as many restrictions as a woman, but most do not see it. A woman does not choose her husband, but a man does not choose his bride. That is done by his father. A man, like a woman, does not choose his children. That is decided by the gods. A man does not choose his inheritance. That, too, is decided by the gods. A man cannot speak his mind any more than a woman can, not truly, for his tongue is stayed by the king and his informants. We are all bound by the roles we are given. We must live within them as best we can.”  
  
“You can accept that?” Lysa questions as she rests her head on her sister’s shoulder.  
  
“What other option is there, running away to the Free Cities and living as heathens for the rest of our days?” Catelyn queries, and she smirks as her sister chuckles.  
  
“We could do it, I think,” Lysa tells her, slipping her arms around her sister’s narrow torso. “Just think of it. The two of us, living somewhere in Essos. Maybe Pentos or Lys. And we could own an inn or something, and no one would tell us how to live or what to do. We wouldn’t have to worry about marriage then.”  
  
“And we could run about in those flimsy, lacey gowns the Myrish women wear!” Catelyn supplies, and they both dissolve into laughter at the thought, for those gowns are absolutely scandalous and they would never, not in a thousand years, be able to wear one in Westeros, not without their father dying of shame.  
  
“Better yet, we could buy our own boat and just sail forever,” Lysa suggests, and the daydream takes shape to have the captaining a vessel that would sail to the farthest ports, explore all the known world and mayhap even discover places uncharted. “We are trout,” she explains, “and the river and the ocean cannot be so different. We could easily survive at sea.”  
  
“Indeed,” Catelyn agrees, “though I doubt fish ever worry that they will roast alive under the noonday sun.” The two look at their entwined arms, at the freckles that spot them from wrist to elbow. The sun burns them far quicker than most, but in this fantasy, they would survive it, become accustomed to it. “Would we be pirates, then?”  
  
“If we needed to be, I’m sure some Braavosi could teach us anything we need to know,” Lysa assures confidently, and the two giggle once more. Never mind that neither of them has a taste for fighting and no desire to learn whatsoever. It is a pleasant dream, one that brings a true smile to her sister’s face for the first time in weeks, and for that, she is grateful.

Their reverie is broken by the sound of the door flying open, and the two look up to see Edmure running into the room, sliding to a stop in front of them. “Riders are coming!” he says excitedly, pointing toward the window. “They’re coming up the River Road.”  
  
“Riders?” Catelyn asks, pushing to her feet and looking back out the window. The angle from the family’s quarters is not good for viewing the road, but she can distantly hear the sounds of horses’ hooves. “We aren’t expecting guests.”  
  
“Whose colors do they fly?” Lysa asks, a small tinge of fear creeping into her voice.  
  
“I only saw red and gold,” Edmure says darkly, and Catelyn spins around just in time to see her sister’s face fall.  
  
“Gods, Cat, I cannot face them again,” she says, looking to her sister for help.  
  
“And you will have no need to do so,” Catelyn assures her, taking her by the shoulders and leading her to the bed. “Stay here, rest. If it is … them, I will make your excuses. If it is others, I will concoct some story to explain your absence and you can join us at dinner.”  
  
“Bless you, sweet sister,” Lysa says in relief, hugging her sister tightly.  
  
“Come, Edmure,” Catelyn starts only after she is satisfied that her sister is settled. Ushering the boy from the room, they quickly descend to the yard where Petyr is waiting.  
  
“It’s the Lannisters,” Petyr says gravely, and she can feel him studying her closely for her reaction. “Ser Brynden just rode out to meet them.”  
  
“To turn them back?” Edmure asks.  
  
“To escort them in,” Petyr tells him, and Catelyn feels her temper flare.  
  
“What?! After all that happened, how can that be?” she cries, eyes wide in shock. “He cannot! They are not welcome! Not ever!”  
  
“They will be welcome if I make them so,” Lord Hoster says steadily, surprising the trio of youngsters as he walks up behind them. His voice is kind even as his eyes study them all closely, but especially Catelyn. Taking her hand and placing it over his forearm, he looks to Edmure and says, “You and Petyr go ready yourselves to receive Lord Lannister and his retinue. And with you, dear daughter,” he begins, squeezing her hand affectionately where it lays over his arm, “I would have a word.”  
  
“As you wish, Father,” Catelyn concedes as the two boys wander off, both of them eyeing her and her father suspiciously. She wants no part in this, wants nothing more than to return to her room in protest, and she is well aware that her father knows this.  
  
“Little Cat,” he begins in a soothing tone, much like, she suspects, he would attempt to calm a spooked horse as he leads her to the side of the yard, “despite what has passed, we will welcome the Lannisters within our walls this day. I know,” Hoster starts quickly, pressing forward before she can interrupt, “that your sister is hurting, and I know that their presence will not ease her pain. But there is much that needs be settled between Lord Lannister and I, and you do not know all of it, Catelyn. You must trust me in this.”  
  
“You ask me to trust you and yet, for the first time since Mother passed, you will not trust me,” Catelyn retorts. Stopping their progress, she turns to face her father. Briefly, she wonders when she became so bold, and against her will her thoughts turn to the man about to reenter her home and her life. “I know that something is going on, Father. I know the letter came from Winterfell and you said nothing of it. It is my future, Father. I have right to know.”  
  
“That you do, my girl,” the older man says kindly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Sometimes I forget just how much a woman grown you have become, Catelyn. You have the right to know, and you will know, I promise. But it must be later. First, we must welcome Lord Lannister’s party, all of us. Your uncle is treating with them now, and the boys will follow your lead. Be the lady I know you are.”  
  
“And Lysa?” Catelyn asks petulantly. She will do as her father asks, she always has, but she is not pleased to be doing it. “Am I to retrieve her from her rooms to be present when those who have shamed her so are to be made welcome?”

“I would not put your sister through that,” Hoster answers with a small shake of his head. “She need never see the Lannisters if she does not wish. I can guess Lord Lannister’s intent in coming here, but if I am wrong, I will not see Lysa further harmed.” Catelyn is unconvinced, and he must read it in her face, for he says quickly, “You have my word on this, Catelyn. I will not see my house further insulted, but if I am correct, there is no risk of that.”  
  
“You can still trust him?” Catelyn asks in disbelief.  
  
“I am leery of him, Little Cat, but there are things at work here that I cannot ignore,” Hoster replies. “I will not say that I trust him, but I must see this through. And I will ask you to do your duty, as befits a Tully of Riverrun.”  
  
“And I will do so, Father, but do not believe that I am glad of it,” she says resolutely.  
  
The look that crosses her father’s face is unreadable, a mix of pride, confusion, pain, and doubt, but she is given little time to ponder it. The portcullis is rising, members of the household are forming up in welcome, and so must she. Standing at her father’s left, she looks toward the gate, glancing only briefly at Edmure, a scowl on his face. With the subtlest shake of her head, Catelyn warns him off the expression and whatever course of action is behind it. If anyone strikes at the Lannisters, it will be her.  
  
The Lannister cortege are led into Riverrun by her uncle, and upon sight of him, Catelyn is struck by the dual sensations of desire and disgust. Lord Tywin cuts an impressive figure as he strides into the yard, back straight and head held high, keen eyes surveying everything before him as though it were his for the taking. You were, she thinks bitterly to herself, allowing the disgust to win out, to choke out any feelings of lust that had crept up in her mind. This man and his son were responsible for her sister’s pain, her house’s insult. This she would not forget.  
But it is not Lord Tywin’s golden son that stalks sulkily behind him, but his daughter, resplendent in her finery and pinch-faced as she takes in the castle and those assembled.  
  
“Greetings, Lord Tywin,” Hoster calls as the man approaches. It is as though he is trying to set the example for his house, and slowly, the household begins to bow.  
  
“I thank you for your welcome, my lord,” Tywin answers easily, though with just enough deference that it sounds contrite. “May I present my daughter, Lady Cersei.”  
  
The scowling girl steps forward and presents her hand, and as she watches her father bow over it and welcome her, Catelyn shudders at the thought that mayhap this was why Lord Tywin had returned, to make a betrothal for his daughter. It is all he can do to fight the urge to scoop Edmure up in her arms and run with him into the castle, but she holds back by sheer force of will. Surely, her father would not be that foolish.  
  
“My children, Lady Cersei,” Hoster begins, motioning from left to right, “my daughter, Lady Catelyn, and my son, Lord Edmure.”  
With a glance to Edmure, Catelyn bows as she has been taught, and with a sideways glance, is glad to see him do the same.  
  
“Welcome to Riverrun,” Catelyn says demurely, the same welcome she has given every visiting lord and lady for the past six years.  
  
“Thank you,” Cersei replies shortly, and Catelyn is sure she doesn’t mean it. She watches the girl look from side to side, her green eyes flicking over everyone present, before asking, “But I understood there to be another daughter. Why does she not make us welcome?”  
  
Anger flares in Catelyn so quickly that she feels her hand twitch upward before she consciously rein in back in, falling back upon her long practiced courtesies as she gives the golden girl before her a polite smile and explains, “My sister is indisposed, and will not be joining us now, or likely at all while you are here.”  
  
“Still smarting, is she?” Cersei asks snidely, a cruel smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth.

Catelyn watches her uncle quickly catch Edmure by the collar of his tunic as the boy starts to charge Cersei, undoubtedly to give her a piece of his young mind, and the first syllable of a scathing insult is already forming on Catelyn’s tongue when suddenly, he is in front of her, between her and his daughter, and she is taken aback by the fact that, even in her anger, his physical presence in such close proximity is enough to excite her senses.  
  
“You will apologize,” she hears Tywin growl lowly, “both to Lord Hoster and his house. And if you presume to open your mouth again and allow such dribble to escape it, you will rue the day you crossed me, girl.”  
  
When he steps away, back to his spot before her father, Catelyn feels the loss of his aura as though it were a tangible thing and curses herself for such feelings. “My apologies, my lord,” Tywin begins with a subtle inclination of his head. “I’m afraid that my daughter has much to learn about courtesy.” He pauses now, glancing pointedly at his child.  
  
“Forgive me my impertinence, my Lord Tully,” Cersei says with fake repentance as she bows, “and I must ask the same of you Lady Catelyn, Lord Edmure, Ser Brynden. I spoke wrongly and I should not have done.”  
  
The words ring hollow, for there is no true sentiment behind them, but her father accepts them quickly enough and soon they are entering the castle. It is left to Catelyn to show Lady Cersei to her quarters, as her father and uncle had almost immediately disappeared with Lord Tywin. That alone gives her pause, but while in the company of Cersei Lannister, she will keep her focus.  
  
“These will be your chambers for your stay,” Catelyn says as she ushers the younger girl into the rooms. “I trust you will find them to your liking. If you have need of anything, please let one of the maids or myself know.”  
  
“These are the accommodations you offer a guest?” Cersei asks, sneering. “The servants’ quarters at the Rock are surely bigger than this.” Turning her back to Catelyn, she adds, “Of course, in a castle this small, anything larger would be impossible. And to think,” she says with airy sigh, turning back to Catelyn and smiling smugly, “my father wanted to wed our house to yours, to a girl who cannot even pull herself together two moons after the fact. Really, Jaime did himself a favor.”  
  
The impulse that Catelyn fought in the yard is freed in the privacy of these chambers, and Cersei’s eyes grow wide as she registers that she has just been slapped.  
  
“How dare you?!” she screams. “I am a lioness of the Rock!”  
  
“And I am a Tully of Riverrun,” Catelyn asserts firmly, “and you would do well to remember that you are not on the Rock.”  
  
“Do you threaten me?!” Cersei asks incredulously, and Catelyn takes pride in the small note of fear that edges its way into the girl’s voice.  
  
“Does a lion swim?” Catelyn questions by way of reply, though she knows not where this sudden viciousness has come from. But it is serving its purpose, as Cersei pales at the insinuation. “Then before you speak again during your stay, you would do well to remember that you are in the land of the trout, and the rivers are numerous.”  
  
And with that, Catelyn stalks from the room, leaving a stunned and speechless Cersei Lannister in her wake.  
  
She means to return to Lysa, to offer her assurances that she need not face the Lannisters, but before she can reach the rooms, Maester Vyman is there to intercept her. He tells her that her father seeks an audience immediately, and, ever the dutiful child, Catelyn follows the older man. It is only as they reach the top of the spiral staircase that she realizes her father is not alone. For through the open door, she can see him and Tywin Lannister, standing close, talking quietly. The maester clears his throat to announce their presence, and immediately, two sets of eyes fall upon her: one blue and one green. It is the green that enchants her, the green hold her gaze even as he begins to stride from the room and past her. With a brief nod and a muttered ‘My lady’, Lord Tywin disappears down the stairs.  
  
“Come, Little Cat,” Hoster says, beckoning her into his solar. “It is time that you know all at last.”


	4. Chapter 4

Dinner was a dismal experience. Cersei had requested the meal be taken in her chambers, citing fatigue from their journey, though he knew it was because she was still smarting over the slap she claimed to have received at Catelyn’s hand. Tywin had only huffed in amusement as his daughter had told him the tale, leaving her aghast that he would do nothing to repay what she saw as a slight against her. In fact, when Cersei had demanded to know what he would do to right the wrong, he had only asked what she had done to deserve the blow. Oh, Tywin could guess. She had likely let her mouth run away with her, as she was want to do when things were not going her way, and Catelyn had silenced her. No matter, the girl needed to learn restraint. The fact that Catelyn had been the provider of such a lesson had only added to his enjoyment of it.  
  
But then Catelyn had not come to dinner either. Her father had made her excuses, claiming openly that she was with her sister, but Tywin knew better. He had made his offer to Lord Hoster shortly after they had arrived, had laid out how it could work and benefit them both. But the man was sentimental. He refused to agree, to make the necessary changes, until he had consulted her. Tywin at once wanted to praise the father and curse the lord. Had she been asked before her betrothal to Brandon if that was what she wished? Certainly not, she had been no more than a girl of two and ten. Was any woman ever truly consulted in matters of matrimony? But, Lord Hoster stood firm, saying that it would be her decision, and Tywin could do not but agree.  
  
He had not wagered on her father giving her the choice. From the moment he sent the letter in King’s Landing, Tywin had thought of how to approach her father, how to make the Lord of Riverrun see reason. Once he had received the reply, just as they were leaving, he redoubled his efforts, going over every word until he knew it was perfectly crafted. No man could refuse such an offer. And yet, it would not be Lord Hoster who would do the refusal at all. It would be Catelyn, and that particular eventuality he had never planned for, had never anticipated. He would never allow something of such gravity to remain in Cersei’s discretion, so it shocked him that Hoster would do so. And after the way he and Catelyn had parted, he doubted she would be receptive to the offer, would see the benefits of it and how it would solve many things.  
  
Without a female influence to help steer conversation, little was said at dinner. The Great Hall was quiet, as most were still unaware of his reasons for being there, still distrustful and angry over what had occurred between Jaime and Lysa. He could not blame them, but it made for a rather melancholy repast, particularly with the young heir of Riverrun staring daggers at him throughout most of the meal.  
  
Tywin had retired shortly after the last course was taken away, and after checking on Cersei, ensuring that she knew to mind her tongue for the remainder of their stay, had returned to his own chambers to see to some things that he had neglected in their departure from King’s Landing. Mostly odds and ends from Casterly Rock, things he would have previously sent on to the steward, to see it handled as he deemed fit. But now that he was returning to residence, Tywin wanted to see to the matters personally. Moreover, it serves as a distraction. When he had enquired of Lord Hoster at dinner, the older lord had said that Catelyn had not yet made him privy to her decision. Tywin Lannister could be a patient man, when all the pieces were firmly under his control and every step of his plan carefully choreographed to perfection, he could wait seemingly forever for events to unfold as he wished. But when that plan was disrupted, when a factor entered into it that he had not anticipated, when that control was wrested from him, even in the smallest of ways, his patience evaporated. That Catelyn herself was an unanticipated player burned him, not because she was involved, but because he had underestimated her agency in this. It was a foolish oversight on his part, one he could curse himself for having perpetrated.  
  
“You look deep in thought, my lord.”

Tywin’s head whips around at once, eyes landing on the very subject of his thoughts. Catelyn has slipped into his chambers, passing silently through the barely cracked door and leaning against the wall opposite him, her hands behind her.  
  
“I was,” Tywin replies, shifting in his chair to be able to face her fully, but otherwise not moving. Her face is blank, but he can see the apprehension in her body language. She has sought him out and he wants to take that as a positive sign, but he is no fool. He will wait her out.  
  
“When last I was here, you called me exceedingly foolish,” she states quietly, breaking the silence between them.  
  
“You were,” he tells her simply. “Barreling into my chambers, with no thought to who may have been here with me, in broad daylight. I’m sure only the respect and loyalty of your father’s servants, not to mention their dislike of me, kept them from filling this castle with gossip of your trysts with the evil old lion.”  
  
“They would not have been wrong in their assumptions,” Catelyn says simply, and he allows the words to hang between them. He will not address it. What they did is done, and he is not sorry for it, nor, he suspects, is she really. She is only looking for something with which to bait him. For all that she is witty, Catelyn is not as well versed in the art of interrogation as he. He will not fall for her ruse. After many moments, she apparently recognizes this, because she speaks again, asking, “Is that why you made your offer?”  
  
Now he sees the crux of it. She does not know how to choose, wants to know his reasons before she does so. It tells him a great deal about her, about the way she thinks, but he wants to know more. “Is that why you believe I made the offer?”  
  
Her eyes narrow as they appraise him, and Tywin is content to allow her scrutiny. Not many are allowed the luxury so blatantly, but he will make an exception for her. “You were true to your word, you left me a maid,” Catelyn says at last. This is true, but he also knows that Brandon Stark would likely seek his head if he learned all that he had done with the girl. “You have no need to protect my honor, nor do I think you would really care about such things even if you had not kept your word.”  
  
“And, for the most part, you would be correct,” Tywin tells her with a nod. “I respect you, Catelyn, and that is not something I give exceedingly. Had I not, I would have taken you in the godswood and likely many times thereafter and would have thought nothing of it.”  
  
“Then why make this offer?”  
  
“Why do you think?”  
  
“Stop doing that,” she says with a sigh of exasperation. “Do not answer every question of mine with one of your own. Tell me, what was your design upon me when you came here? Is this all a part of your game?”  
  
“All life is a game, my lady, do not believe otherwise,” Tywin begins, “but know that I had no intention toward you whatsoever when I arrived here. You were the sister of the girl to whom I wished to betroth my son, little more. After I arrived, I found you intelligent, engaging, and attractive. Further, as the betrothed of Brandon Stark, I assumed you knowledgeable, at least somewhat, in the carnal pursuits of a man with a woman. I sought entertainment, no more. I had planned, upon leaving Riverrun, to leave you behind as well. And, truly, not much changed after I learned you were a maid. The goal was the same, simply the means of achieving it varied.”  
  
“I still served as a distraction,” Catelyn says, glaring at him.  
  
“A very pleasant one,” Tywin tells her, not the least bit apologetic. Yes, he had used her, he knows she sees that. But it was not as though she did not enjoy it. It is only hurt feelings that he sees reflected in her eyes, the risk one takes when engaging a woman so young. Deciding to push her a bit, he continues, saying, “I say that not as an insult. I enjoyed our time together, as did you. And you may believe that I used you, and you would not be wrong, but bear in mind that you also used me as well.”

“I never!” Catelyn cries indignantly, pushing off the wall to stare him down.  
  
“Oh really?” Tywin drawls the question, one brow rising as he watches her, knowing that what he is about to say will likely be the deciding factor. “I suppose I had to drag you to my rooms all those nights, then? Forgive me for not realizing that all those screams and moans were you expressing your suffering and not your pleasure at my touch. I shall make amends by helping you ensure that your betrothed never strays from your bed. I will send another raven to inform Lord Brandon of how talented his pretty little betrothed has become, describe to him in lurid detail how adventurous she truly is, how she loves the taste of a man’s seed on her tongue.”  
  
Catelyn is moving in an instant, and just as quickly, Tywin is on his feet. Having been on the receiving end of her hand before, he anticipates her blow and correctly expects her right hand to fly, catching her fluidly about the wrist and tugging her close. The proximity makes her attempt to slap him with her left ineffective, and she struggles against him to get free.  
  
“Enough!” he snaps, giving her a quick shake to try to snap her out of it before jerking her back to him, forcing her onto her tiptoes so that they are quite close. “You would do well to remember, my lady, that I made the proposal, but that it was you who chose to accept. It was you who came to me, and do not attempt to lie to yourself or me and think that I forced you into anything. You came to me, curious and willing,” Tywin says, dropping his voice to a harsh, yet stirred, whisper, “and you know as well as I that you enjoyed every last second of it.”  
  
“And what, you will write to Brandon if I do not accept? You plan to blackmail me into agreeing?” Catelyn hisses bitterly, wounded. She has misunderstood him, took his words to be not only hurtful, but a threat as well.  
  
“I told you that no one need ever know, and I will adhere to that,” Tywin tells her, easing his hold to allow her to stand flat footed. He does not release her, however, catching both wrists in one large hand to allow him to cup her cheek so she cannot look away. “Lord Brandon will never hear any of this from me. And should you decline my offer that will not change. But you need to understand that we each played a role in what transpired between us, and you cannot deny your part any more than I can mine. However, if that is all that will ever be, I shall leave it in the past, as I intended to do all along.”  
  
“If that was truly your intent, why write to Winterfell to have my betrothal altered, why ask my father for my hand?” she questions, and he can see the fight leave her as she works to simply understand. He is fairly certain that she still believes he would use what he knows against her, but at least she is no longer trying to fight him. He will accept that as a positive step.  
  
“Because Jaime has forsaken his birthright and I need an heir,” Tywin explains simply.  
  
“Then you offer for my sister, not for me,” Catelyn retorts. “She is free to enter a betrothal. I am already spoken for.”  
  
“I do not want a child-bride, nor a wife who lives in fear of me, but one whose opinions I value and who will offer good counsel when asked,” he says, watching her face closely as he does. “I need a woman grown, one with confidence and savvy. You are astute, you think things through, looking beyond what is obvious. Your sister is too meek, too timid, and far too young to ever be of use to me beyond the birthing of a babe.”  
  
“The description of what you seek could be met with any number of women who are not otherwise betrothed,” Catelyn fires back, not wavering. “Why return for me?”

“You will be wasted on the North, I have said this before,” he begins, brushing his thumb ever so softly across the apple of her cheek. She is pushing him toward an answer Tywin is not ready to give, toward something he has not yet admitted even to himself. So he stalls, giving her a truth, for she deserves no less, one that he hopes will suffice. “Brandon Stark will use you to birth his heir and little else. He will not seek your counsel, would not welcome it if offered. Where your father has encouraged your keen mind, your betrothed would wish to see it squelched. But you are too strong for that, and that would make you bitter. Bitter and isolated in Winterfell. You deserve better than that. By ill fate of your birth, you can never hold power outright, but in the right circumstance, you could wield it all the same, as much as any man in the realm. By my side, I can swear that you will.”  
  
“I have no desire for power,” Catelyn asserts, and he cannot help but huff in amusement.  
  
“You have no desire for power beyond what you believe is to be expected of a woman,” Tywin corrects, “but be assured that you desire power, at least the maintenance of that which you already possess. Your mother died the same year as my wife, and in the six years since, you have been Lady of Riverrun. You have run this house, issued orders, welcomed guests, and had your words respected for the weight they carry. Brandon Stark will undermine that. I never will. I value your power, your strength, and your passion. Not many would slap my dare slap my daughter.” Her eyes go wide in shock, and he grins slightly, knowing that she has not taken his words as the compliment they were meant to be. “That is the kind of spirit I need in a wife, the kind of spirit I need passed on to my heir.”  
  
“Jaime was your heir, and yet you would have wed him to Lysa,” Catelyn states, and Tywin sighs inwardly that, for once, she cannot simply give in and agree. But then, she would not be who she was if she did.  
  
“Because Jaime needed a wife who would be willing to be led, to encourage him to become the man he needed to be as the future Lord of Casterly Rock,” Tywin answers. “Too long my son allowed himself to be led by his sister. If betrothed to a woman of your ilk, he would simply allow her to do the same, and I have witnessed with great clarity the way a woman can prey upon a weak willed man.” Unbidden, visions of his father flash through his mind, and he feels his ire rise.  
  
“So this is your bargain?” Catelyn queries, still not convinced. “Break my betrothal to Brandon – and I still cannot fathom how you convinced Lord Stark to agree – so Lysa can go North in my stead, and I wed you? Why, if Brandon will treat me so poorly, would I do that to my sister?”  
  
“Brandon needs a wife like your sister, one who will agree with every word he says and dutifully give him child after child while he continues to pursue his own interests,” Tywin fires back quickly, his temper beginning to get the better of him as he cannot get. He has given her good reason to choose him, if only she weren’t so damnably stubborn. “And Lord Stark does not need you, Catelyn, only a daughter of this house. You were the obvious choice because you were the eldest. But Rickard Stark seeks only alliances south. Your sister serves his purposes as easily as you. And to assure it, he will be well compensated for his willingness to amend the betrothal.”  
  
“Yes, my father mentioned that,” Catelyn says, and he can see the ire beginning to rise in her again. “Tell me, my lord, what is the going rate for a whore you would take to wife?”

Hearing that word leave her lips in association with herself sparks an anger so hot within him that he has slipped his hand behind her neck and yanked her forward before he realizes it, his face just inches from hers. “Never,” Tywin growls, “speak of yourself in those terms again, my lady. Gold soothes men’s egos so that honor is maintained. It is that simple. I do not wish to make an enemy of the North, but I do wish to have you as a wife.” He watches those words sink in, and before she can argue further, he says, “Your son will rule a noble house, you have known this since you were young. Your father’s ambition was to see his grandsons rule three kingdoms of the realm: the Riverlands, the Westerlands, and the North. That can still happen. You can see that your sister’s son becomes a high lord equal to your father, equal to your own son. It all rests upon your choice.”  
  
Tywin continues to hold her close, to force her to meet his gaze. He wants her to see that there is no deception in his words, that he does not seek to lie to her. He thinks that she believes him, but her face reveals nothing, and he has yet to learn her silences as well as he would like.  
  
Finally, Catelyn takes a deep breath, shaking off his hands, and steps back. “Thank you, my lord,” she begins, offering a small curtsey. “I appreciate your answers to my questions.” And with that, she turns to go.  
  
“Wait!” Tywin calls after her, confused. She stops by the door, turning back to him with the same unreadable look on her face. “Your answer, my lady.”  
  
“Will come to you through my father,” Catelyn says haughtily, “for you are neither my husband nor my betrothed.” And with that, she sweeps from the room, leaving him speechless.  
  
How dare she? His fury should be boiling over, and indeed he is angry, his fingers clenching and unclenching uncontrollably as he assesses the situation. Tywin wants to go after her, chase her down … and press her against the wall and show her who truly has the power. It should upset him that he finds her insolence arousing, but it merely frustrates him, irritates him that he cannot go after her, may never have the right to do so if she declines.  
  
With a muttered curse, Tywin returns to the desk, attempting to go back to work. But it is pointless. His mind is too filled with Catelyn to focus. It has been a long time since a woman has haunted his thoughts so, and that too annoys him. Resigning himself to doing no more work this night, he quickly and efficiently tidies away the desk, securing anything that he would not want seen, and makes his way to the bedchamber. He requires no attendant, and this suits him this night, as he sheds his layers in rushed, jerky movements indicative of his mood. It is too hot to sleep even in his tunic, so he climbs beneath the sheets wearing nothing, and even then, he struggles to get comfortable, to relax. Sleep is evasive this night, and he tosses and turns for what feels like hours, and being honest with himself, he knows he cannot blame it all on the climate. His mind races with possibilities, many of them he does not like. He assumed she would agree, but what if she doesn’t? What if she chooses the Stark boy over him? The lad was certainly younger, but could not give her what he could, will she not see that? What will he do if she doesn’t? Whom will he marry? Does he wish to wed anyone else? Will he have made an enemy of the North as well, then?  
  
Tywin knows not how long those contemplations plague him, only that they are his last waking thoughts before sleep claims him finally. But he is not in its clutches long, for sooner than he would like, he is roused from a dead slumber by the feel of a weight over his belly. Immediately, his hands go to the object even as his sleep-addled mind tries to catch up, and his hands register warmth … smooth … soft … supple, before his brain tells his fingers to squeeze and he hears a soft moan. Opening his eyes, Tywin is greeted by the sight of a very naked Catelyn straddling him, and, illuminated by the moonlight, is breathtakingly beautiful.

He opens his mouth to speak, but Catelyn is too quick, leaning down to seal her mouth over his. “My father will give you my answer on the morrow,” she whispers against his lips. Pulling back slightly, brushing her long hair over one shoulder, she grins and says, “Do try to appear as though you did not already know.”  
  
For a moment, Tywin just stares at her, stunned. And then he is smirking, victorious. Surging up, he catches her face in his hands and kisses her senseless. Rolling, he draws her beneath him, never breaking the contact between their lips. “I believe I can do my part,” Tywin assures her, before ensuring that she thinks of nothing else this night but him.  
  
Catelyn may have entered his room a maid, but come morning, she will leave it as his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the epilogue left!


End file.
